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Cruzada Terrana
Esta página detalla la Cruzada librada por el Primarca Roboute Guilliman a finales del 999.M41 después de su resurrección en Macragge. Para la primera Cruzada Terrana liderada por los Templarios Negros durante el M36, vea Era de la Apostasía y Reinado de Sangre. La Cruzada Terrana fue una campaña militar imperial en el 999.M41 liderado por el resucitado Primarca Roboute Guilliman después de su victoria en la Campaña de Ultramar y de la Caída de Cadia durante la decimotercera cruzada negra de el Señor de la Guerra, Abaddon el Saqueador. El enteró de que los sobrevivientes imperiales de la caída de Cadia, conocida como la Cruzada Celestina, habían sido rescatados por los Eldar Ynnari. Huyendo a través de la puerta de la Telaraña en la luna de hielo de Klaisus en el Sistema Cadia, los Imperiales se dirigieron a Macragge, el mundo capital del Reino de Ultramar del Capítulo de Ultramarines. El Saqueador fue advertido por uno de sus Hechiceros del Caos, Zaraphiston, que había previsto en la Disformidad que esta fuga podría conducir a una serie de eventos que cambiarían las tornas en contra de la victoria final del Caos en la Guerra Eterna. Para evitar ese resultado, el Saqueador ordenó una invasión del Caos a gran escala de Ultramar y la destrucción de los Ultramarines. Pero la advertencia de Zaphariston resultó ser profética. Los celestinos convencieron a Marneus Calgar, el Maestro del Capítulo de los Ultramarines, para que les permitiera intentar resucitar a su Primarca, Roboute Guilliman, que había estado atrapado en estasis en el Templo de la Corrección en Macragge durante diez mil años estándar. A pesar de un intento tardío y desesperado por parte de las fuerzas del Saqueador para detener la actuación de los Leales, Belisarius Cawl, un Archimagos Dominus del Adeptus Mechanicus, junto con el poder de Yvraine, la sacerdotisa Ynnari del Dios Eldar de los Muertos Ynnead, logró fusionar la tecnología y poder psíquico para restaurar la vida de Guilliman. Con un Primarca de nuevo al mando de la defensa de los Ultramarines de Macragge, la victoria llegó rápidamente. Guilliman logró expulsar a las Fuerzas del Caos de su mundo natal y luego, en el transcurso de siete meses estándar, del resto de Ultramar. Con Ultramar nuevamente bajo control leal, Guilliman tuvo tiempo de aceptar lo que el Imperio del Hombre se había convertido en los diez mil años estándar de su ausencia. Lejos de la regla de oro de la prosperidad, la maravilla científica y la libertad prometida por el Emperador, el Imperio en su ausencia había degenerado en un régimen tiránico y despótico definido por la ignorancia, el miedo y la superstición. Al principio, desesperado, Guilliman finalmente encontró la esperanza para el futuro de la humanidad una vez más en lo profundo de su corazón y declaró que debía abrirse camino desde Macragge a través de las mareas turbulentas de la Disformidad hasta Terra. Allí consultaría con su padre, el Emperador, y determinaría qué hacer para salvar al Imperio de los sirvientes de los Dioses Oscuros. Reuniendo fuerzas de todo el Imperio que pudieron alcanzar a Macragge a medida que la Disformidad se volvía cada vez más turbulenta a raíz de la 13a Cruzada Negra, el Primarca reunió una Flota Cruzada masiva para llegar a Terra. Dejando a Macragge y Ultramar en las manos capaces de Marneus Calgar, la flota de Guilliman estaba pasando cerca de la gran grieta Warp conocida como Torbellino cuando fue interceptada por una Flota del Caos dirigida por el Primarca Demonio Magnus el Rojo y sus Mil Hijos. Magnus se había levantado del Planeta de los Hechiceros por primera vez en milenios en los últimos días, para asaltar el Sistema Fenris de sus antiguos enemigos los Lobos Espaciales, y ahora para enfrentarse a su ex hermano, el Primarca de los Mil Hijos lanzó un potente ritual hechicero que arrojó la Flota de la Cruzada Terrana al Torbellino, sin una forma aparente de escapar de las garras laberínticas de esa herida en la realidad. Atrapados por un tiempo indeterminado, la Cruzada Terrana vagó de Mundo Demoníaco a Mundo Demoníaco dentro de la grieta disforme, sufriendo bajas constantes de los constantes ataques. Durante todo este tiempo, la culpa y la frustración de Roboute Guilliman comenzaron a crecer, agobiando su psique, ya que a los Leales les resultaba imposible escapar de las garras del Torbellino. Pero un rayo de esperanza llegó cuando en uno de esos mundos Guilliman recibió un mensaje psíquico del Eldar Eldrad Ulthran, ahora un aliado de los Ynnari, que estableció una serie de puntos de referencia para la flota imperial para que consiga escapar de la grieta disforme. Pero cuando la Cruzada, muy disminuida, llegó al cementerio de naves espaciales que marcaba el paso de regreso a espacio real, se encontró con otra flota masiva del Caos, esta vez de los piratas conocidos como Corsarios Rojos, dirigido por el Señor del Cambio Kairos Tejedestinos. Las fuerzas del Caos asaltaron cada nave en la flota imperial, y Kairos finalmente logró derrotar a Guilliman usando sus poderes psíquicos para envolver al Primarca en cadenas literalmente creadas a partir de su propia culpa. Amenazando la vida del Primarca inmovilizado, el Gran Demonio obligó al resto de la flota imperial a rendirse. La Cruzada Terran se encontró en una situación desesperada, llevada por orden de Fateweaver a una Fortaleza Negra escondida en el Maelstrom por los Corsarios Rojos, un regalo secreto de Abaddon el Saqueador Allí, el Primarca y sus seguidores restantes se habrían podrido por la eternidad si no hubiera sido por la intervención de una fuente inesperada: los Arlequínes dirigidos por el Vidente de las Sombras Sylandri Caminavelos y Cypher, el misterioso Ángel Caído que a veces era enemigo y a veces aliado de aquellos leales al Emperador. A cambio de la promesa de llevar al Ángel Caído ante el Trono Dorado, Cypher liberó al Primarca y a sus compatriotas. Con sus naves espaciales perdidas para ellos, sus tripulaciones sacrificadas a los Poderes Ruinosos, Caminavelos ofreció otro camino a Terra, a través de la puerta de la Telaraña que se encontraba en el corazón de la enorme fortaleza estelar. Los Imperiales se abrieron paso profundamente en el interior de la Fortaleza Negra, derrotando la repentina afluencia de demonios de Khorne y Tzeentch que les impedían el paso. El último obstáculo fue representado por el Devorador de Almas Skarbrand que asaltó directamente al Primarca después de matar al heroico Campeón del Emperador el Gran Mariscal Marius Amalrich. Guilliman logró derrotar al Gran Demonio en combate cuerpo a cuerpo en gran parte debido a la herida que la '' Espada Negra '' de Amalrich había dejado en la piel ardiente de Skarbrand. Con la caída de Skarbrand, la Cruzada Terrana cruzó por la Telaraña para dirigirse hacia Terra, solo para descubrir que la Dimensión del Laberinto ya estaba infestada por Magnus el Rojo y las fuerzas de los Mil Hijos. Cuando Caminavelos explicó que había existido una salida secreta de la Telaraña en Luna, la luna de Terra, Guilliman se dio cuenta de que su hermano demonio los había estado esperando. Tan pronto como abrieran la salida de la Telaraña en el Sistema Solar, los Mil Hijos se apresurarían detrás de ellos, desatando una gran invasión del Caos justo en la puerta de Terra, permitiendo a Magnus obtener la gloria por delante del Saqueador. Pero con la ayuda de los Arlequines y otras fuerzas imperiales como las Hermanas del Silencio y los Puños Imperiales, Guilliman y sus sobrevivientes de la Cruzada Terrana lograron abrumar a los Mil Hijos en la Luna y lanzar a Magnus de regreso a través del portal de la Telaraña, sellandolo permanentemente para que nunca más se pueda usar para amenazar al Mundo del Trono del Imperio. Por fin, Guilliman fue escoltado por los asombrados defensores de Terra hasta el Palacio Imperial, donde los sobrevivientes de las Cruzadas Celestina y Terrana finalmente se separaron. Allí, finalmente se reunió por un día solar completo con su padre, el Emperador de la Humanidad, por primera vez en diez milenios. Nadie sabe lo que se dijo entre ellos, pero cuando el Primarca salió del Palacio Interior, declaró que estaba tomando el manto del Lord Comandante del Imperio una vez más. Ahora el primero entre iguales entre los Altos Señores de Terra tal como lo había sido después de la Herejía de Horus, Guilliman prometió a la gente de la galaxia que reuniría la mayor flota y ejércitos vistos desde la Gran Cruzada para llevar la lucha al Caos... y revivir el sueño perdido del Emperador de un futuro mejor para la Humanidad. Historia Viaje al Infierno Revelaciones Oscuras La Disformidad es, en muchos sentidos, un espejo de nuestra realidad. Como una piscina oscura e insondable, su superficie se ondula con el impacto de eventos trascendentales o grandes estallidos de pasión y emoción. La resurrección de Roboute Guilliman durante la Campaña de Ultramar envió ondas de energía psíquica hacia el Immaterium, corriendo tsunamis de agitación que no pasaron desapercibidos. Uno por uno, los Campeones de los Dioses Oscuros del Caos se dieron cuenta del Primarca resucitado. Reclinado en medio de un banquete interminable de almas, Fulgrim hizo una mueca de disgusto cuando los demonios le susurraron la noticia al oído. El Primarca Demonoi de la Legión Traidora de los Hijos del Emperador se levantó de su trono de terciopelo, prometiendo a su depravada diosa Slaanesh que esta vez aseguraría la eterna caída en desgracia de Guilliman. En fanes ocultos y laberintos cristalinos, los demonios más grandes de Tzeentch observaron cómo la trama del destino se ondularon y cambiaron con las implicaciones del regreso de Guilliman. Al leer la voluntad de su maestro en las facetas destrozadas del futuro, cada uno se propuso la tarea de contaminar, tentar o destruir al Primarca de los Ultramarines en una miríada de modas sutilmente variadas. En lo profundo de los ruidosos pantanos del Jardín de Nurgle en el Reino del Caos, un cónclave de Grandes Inmundicias escuchó con indulgencia el frenético balbuceo de las moscas mensajeras. Se deleitaron con deleite, la bilis y los gusanos cayeron por sus pústulas. ¡Un primarca! Uno no tocado ni contaminado por ninguno de los hermanos de Nurgle. Su maestro pestilencial sin duda valoraría un premio tan alto. Quizás, se rieron burlonamente, incluso podrían organizar una reconciliación final entre el amargo Mortarion y su hermano. Tal oportunidad no se había presentado en miles de años estándar, y los Grandes Inmundos tararearon alegremente mientras comenzaban a inventar una enfermedad digna de un semidiós. En otra parte de la galaxia, el Cataclismo de Mendox estaba llegando a su horrible conclusión. A lo largo de un frente de guerra que abarcó sistemas estelares enteros, los Campeones de Khorne quemaron ochenta y ocho mundos imperiales a la vez. En medio de las crecientes llamas de su genocidio, los Campeones de Khorne, tanto mortales como demoníacos, presenciaron visiones de su furiosa deidad, furiosa por el regreso de Guilliman. Su fuelle apoplético resonó como un trueno a través de los cielos de los planetas moribundos, y Tormentas Disformes estremecieron la realidad como si el Dios de la Sangre estuviera atacando las estrellas con su espada ruinosa. Los sirvientes de los otros Dioses Oscuros podrían tratar de corromper a Guilliman, engañarlo o despojarlo. Sin embargo, los sirvientes de Khorne sabían que su maestro no tenía paciencia para tales cosas. En cambio, cayeron a la batalla entre ellos, luchando por el derecho de cazar al Primarca renacido y reclamar su cráneo para el Señor de los Craneos. Otros señores oscuros, también, vieron el faro brillante del renacimiento de Guilliman desde lejos y comenzaron a reunir sus fuerzas en consecuencia. Prevenido por las visiones proféticas del profeta Zaphariston, Abaddon había forjado una alianza suelta de bandas de guerra de Marines Traidores para asesinar a Guilliman antes de que pudiera ocurrir su resurrección. Fue esto lo que provocó la repentina y frenética invasión del Caos de Ultramar, pero, incluso con la ayuda de una fuerza considerable de Legionarios Negros, los señores de la guerra vasallos de Abaddon habían fallado en su táctica inicial. Furioso, Abaddon convocó y ató al Señor del Cambio Kairos Tejedestino, enviándolo a través de la galaxia para reunir nuevas fuerzas contra el Primarca. En mundos infernales remotos, Magnus el Rojo y el Señor de la Muerte Mortarion recibieron la noticia del despertar de su hermano. Sus reacciones fueron tan diferentes como el fuego y el hielo. Mortarion se enfureció, una tormenta de ira fría y virulenta se arremolinaba a su alrededor hasta que sus ecos en el espacio real sembraron siete nuevas y terribles plagas en 7 mundos imperiales desafortunados. Atascado en medio de planes que estaban llegando a buen término, el Primarca Demonio de la Legión Traidora de la Guardia de la Muerte aún no podía actuar para atacar a Guilliman. En cambio, miraba con ojos brillantes a través de los campos de desfile cubiertos de niebla de su Planeta de la Peste, y las filas masivas de la Guardia de la Muerte allí reunidas, Mortarion prometió que haría que Guilliman y su imperio se pudrieran lo suficientemente pronto. Magnus, en comparación, lanzó una risa estruendosa de absoluto deleite. Como un adivino que voltea su carta de tarot final y obtiene una visión repentina, el Rey Carmesí vio ahora ante él caminos de destino glorioso, donde antes había sido un desierto de confusión. Magnus comenzó a dar órdenes, sus palabras estallaron como enjambres de insectos cristalinos. Volaron para reunir a las bandas de esclavos de su una vez orgullosa Legión de los Marines Espaciales, los Mil Hijos. Ya, el ciclópeo Primarca se había vengado de un antiguo enemigo odiado, incendiando el Sistema Fenris de los Lobos Espaciales en los fuegos de la retribución. Ahora veía la oportunidad de castigar a otro. Así que el poder de la Disformidad comenzó a reunirse, enroscándose y retorciéndose como un nido de serpientes. Las bandas de guerra de los marines traidores cabalgaron las mareas oscuras del Empireo hacia Ultramar, aullando con sed de sangre desnuda y jurando votos para derribar a Guilliman en nombre de los Poderes Ruinosos. Las franjas de la galaxia ya estaban llenas de Tormentas de Disformidad que se habían derramado a través de la Puerta de Cadia con toda la ferocidad de la Vieja Noche, o que se habían desatado por la fractura del Mundo Astronave Biel-Tan. Ahora esas tempestades se extendieron aún más, cuando el Aniquilador Primordial volvió todas sus atenciones al espacio real. Las fauces gritonas se abrieron entre las estrellas, horriblemente inmensas, bostezando abismos rodeados de colmillos montañosos y tentáculos ectoplásmicos en espiral. Docenas de mundos se sumieron en la oscuridad y el terror cuando el tiempo se desmoronó a su alrededor y las energías del Immaterium estallaron en sus orillas para inundar el espacio real. Sin embargo, los sirvientes de los Dioses Oscuros son siempre oportunistas, y creían que este momento de distracción podría usarse para atacar a los respectivos rivales de sus amos entre el panteón del Caos. Montados sobre un escorpión de engranajes del tamaño de una ciudad, las legiones de sangre de Khorne se precipitaron de cabeza a los sinuosos bordes del Laberinto de Cristal del Señor del Cambio, enjambres de demonios de Tzeench que eructaban con llamas saliendo a su encuentro como insectos defendiendo su territorio. Al mismo tiempo, la cabalgata de hedonismo de Slaanesh se abrió camino en el Jardín de Nurgle, incluso cuando el infame Anfitrion Perezoso del Dios de la Peste se retorció a través de las cavernas de azufre bajo el Bastión del Fuego de Hierro de Khorne. Muy pronto, nuevas guerras se desataron en los dominios de los Dioses del Caos, sus eternas rivalidades avivadas por los acontecimientos trascendentales, pero aún una parte de sus atenciones se centró en el destino de Roboute Guilliman, y en los planes de sus adoradores para humillarlo. ---- Relato Oficial: Guilliman Desafiante En cuanto al propio Primarca, Guilliman aún no estaba al tanto de la locura demoníaca que había provocado su regreso. Esto fue una misericordia, ya que el Señor de Ultramar ya tenía un peso aplastante de preguntas y conmociones que tratar. Todo lo que Guilliman sabía había desaparecido, reemplazado por la locura y el horror de un futuro que había tratado tan desesperadamente de evitar diez mil años estándar antes. Batalla por Macragge Cuatro días y noches solares después de su coronación como el Señor de Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman salió de la reclusión. En su ausencia, Marneus Calgar había seguido liderando la pelea, ignorando sus heridas mientras coordinaba el esfuerzo de guerra de los Ultramarines. Ahora, sin embargo, Calgar cedió voluntariamente el control de la campaña a su padre genético. Reconociendo al Señor de Capitulo enormemente capaz por el activo que era, Guilliman mantuvo a Calgar al alcance de la mano en las batallas que siguieron, y le preguntó a su consejo constantemente. El Hermano Bibliotecario Tigurius también se convirtió rápidamente en un asesor de confianza. En una decisión que sorprendió a muchos, Guilliman también incluyó a Voldus, Cawl, Santa Celestine y la Inquisidora Greyfax entre su camarilla de lugartenientes. El Primarca buscó las ideas de cada brazo de la máquina de guerra imperial, reconociendo que en la unidad se encontraba la fuerza. Con sus consejeros a su lado, y el poder no arqueado de los Ultramarines a su disposición, Guilliman comenzó la reconquista de su mundo natal. Los asuntos galácticos más amplios tendrían que esperar; Macragge todavía estaba acosado por todos lados, y si el planeta Capítular caía, incluso el Primarca resucitado seguramente sería arrastrado por la marea de enemigos. La guerra por Macragge duró un poco más de un mes solar y su ritmo fue vertiginoso. Roboute Guilliman era una fuerza de la naturaleza, un avatar imparable de la voluntad del Emperador que empujó a sus enemigos ante él como si fuera un ganado. Primero vino una serie de ofensivas a la velocidad del rayo para despejar el Valle de Laponis y la ciudad parcialmente arruinada de Macragge Magna Civitas. Las baterías de los cañones de asedio de los Guerreros de Hierro fueron destruidas. Los motores de artillería semi-sensibles fueron destrozados, sus supervisores fueron ejecutados con rápida eficiencia. Las masas de canto de los Cultistas del Caos fueron rodeadas dentro de cúpulas doradas y altos bloques de viviendas, antes de ser sistemáticamente asesinados. Agemman, Celestine y Greyfax lideraron ataques precisos para recuperar las baterías orbitales primarias de la ciudad. Muy pronto, columnas de luz rubí se precipitaron hacia los cielos para expulsar a los buques de guerra del Caos de sus órbitas geosíncronicas sobre la Fortaleza-Monasterio de los Ultramarines. Esto era solo el principio. Liderados por el famoso comandante de tanques Antaro Chronus, las columnas rugientes de tanques Ultramarines barrieron a los grupos de batalla de Traidores de las Tierras Altas de Magletine, y condujeron a sus sobrevivientes al Océano Pharamis sacudido por la tormenta. El Gran Maestro Voldus y su 3ra Hermandad de los Caballeros Grises prestaron su poder a la reconquista cuando encabezaron el ataque contra la ciudad corrupta de Collosae. Aquí los cazadores de demonios con armadura plateada libraron una batalla de gatos y ratones con bandas crueles de Amos de la Noche, que habían velado la ciudad en una penumbra antinatural. Los Traidores finalmente fueron expulsados, y un misterioso ritual de sangre se detuvo antes de que pudiera llegar a buen término, aunque la ciudad entera tuvo que ser purificada desde la órbita por temor a su mancha del Caos. Guilliman dirigió ataques contra Valmari, el Monte Tarphus y el nevado Pasaje Gallinus, emergiendo triunfante a cada paso. Los Ultramarines barrieron todo ante ellos, combinando su habilidad y disciplina excepcionales con los planes de batalla visionarios de su Primarca en un todo imparable. Los Ultramar Auxilia siguieron cada nueva conquista, excavando y fortificando en gran número para que cualquier intento de las Fuerzas del Caos de contraatacar se encontrara con una resistencia abrumadora. Aunque los Astartes Herejes lucharon furiosamente e infligieron graves pérdidas a los Leales, simplemente no pudieron igualar la perspicacia estratégica de Roboute Guilliman, y una banda de guerra del Caos tras otra fue derrotada. Incluso aquellos que huyeron de Macragge no encontraron refugio en el vacío, ya que su flota de invasión había sido rodeada y reducida a chatarra por la Flota de Defensa Ultramar. Finalmente, después de largas semanas solares de batallas viciosas y un gran número de muertos, el mundo de Macragge fue liberado una vez más. La Corona de Glorias Los primeros pasos se habían tomado en el camino de la reconquista. Macragge estaba libre de la mancha del Caos. Guilliman deseaba seguir adelante, consumido por su deseo de expulsar a los Poderes Ruinosos de Ultramar. Sin embargo, los que lideró necesitaban tiempo para reagruparse y consolidarse. Incontables heridos requirieron atención. Cientos de máquinas de guerra necesitaban reparación. Guilliman fue lo suficientemente sabio como para dar a sus seguidores el tiempo que necesitaban. Mientras tanto, los refuerzos imperiales se reunieron alrededor de Macragge. Enfrentándose a las Tormentas de Disformidad que se desatan en el espacio local, las naves de los Marines Espaciales se reunen sobre el mundo natal de los Ultramarines. Las delegaciones de muchos capítulos sucesores del Primogenitor de los Ultramarines habían pasado por el Empíreo, arriesgándose a un terrible peligro de ver por sí mismos que el Primarca había vuelto. Novamarines, Hijos de Orar, el capítulo de los Génesis y muchos otros se unieron a la creciente multitud, arrodillándose ante el Primarca y jurando lealtad a él. Mientras se reunían los ejércitos destinados a la reconquista de Ultramar, se presentó una nueva oportunidad. Fue el Archicónsul de Magna Civitas, el más cercano que Ultramar tenía a un gobernador planetario convencional, quien sugirió que se pudiera celebrar un gran desfile de la victoria, y su majestad se registrara en imágenes para enviar a lo largo y ancho del Imperio. El cónsul dijo que la gente necesitaba la luz de la esperanza en esta hora oscura, un brillante ejemplo de victoria para renovar su fe no solo en el Emperador, sino en Guilliman. Ahora renacido. El Primarca accedió a esta demanda, aunque se sintió mal con su sombrío estado interior. Guilliman vio la sabiduría en él, pero aceptó tal engrandecimiento solo a regañadientes. Pocos días solares después de que se declarara la victoria, un gran triunfo se extendió desde la Puerta del Titán hasta los mismos escalones de la Fortaleza de Hera. Miles de motores de guerra y millones de guerreros presentaron sus colores y levantaron vítores y bocinas al cielo. Un mar agitado de residentes de la ciudad llenó las procesiones y plazas llenas de cráteres para observar los procedimientos, y voces más allá del recuento sonaron como una para llorar los elogios de Guilliman en un solo rugido ensordecedor. De pie sobre una plataforma de columnas de mármol con sus lugartenientes más cercanos a su lado, el Primarca presentó obedientemente el espectáculo más magnífico que pudo para las masas reunidas. El propio Archicónsul presentó a Guilliman con una corona de laurel asombrosamente labrada hecha a mano en oro, instando al Primarca a ponerse la corona dorada de inmediato. En el momento en que Guilliman lo hizo, su mente se llenó de pensamientos sobre futuras glorias. Este miserable triunfo no sería nada comparado con el impresionante espectáculo de su conquista galáctica. Los ejércitos del Primarca serían innumerables, su adoración por su heroico señor era tan grande que morirían por él alegremente. Los planetas, los sistemas, los Segmentums completos se renombrarían en honor al que los había liberado, y los perros azotados del Caos huirían ante él como los malditos que eran. Se levantarían estatuas para conmemorar la majestad de Guilliman, y eventualmente incluso el Trono Dorado de Terra sería suyo para montar. El hijo más leal del Emperador no merecía menos una herencia, y él se lo merecía. Fue este último pensamiento el que sacó a Guilliman de la insidiosa maldición de la corona. Con un grito ahogado, se arrancó la corona dorada de la cabeza y gritó una orden para que se restringiera al Archicónsul. Fue el Gran Maestro Voldus quien agarró al dignatario con túnica, y cuando sus benditos guanteletes tocaron la carne del hombre, chisporroteó y crujió. El estruendo del triunfo fue colosal, una oleada de ruido oceánico que ocultó los chillidos del Archicónsul mientras las ilusiones que lo velaban se desvanecían. Guilliman y sus lugartenientes retrocedieron ante la cosa mutante deforme que fue revelada. Bulboso y deformado, la abominación carnosa y entusiasta llevaba un amuleto brillante alrededor de su cuello en una correa de piel humana. Mientras Guilliman miraba con disgusto este fetiche maldito, escuchó un susurro silbando en su mente que no había escuchado desde aquel fatídico encuentro en Thessala diez milenios antes. En tono burlón, Fulgrim le dio la bienvenida a Guilliman a su amado Imperio. El Primarca Demonio reveló que había ocultado un fragmento de su propio animus en el amuleto que llevaba su criado, y confesó su decepción porque Guilliman había rechazado su regalo, la Corona de Glorias. Muchos héroes grandes y puros habían caído en los halagos de la baratija, y Fulgrim había esperado poder corromper a Guilliman de la misma manera. Sin embargo, el Príncipe Demonio le aseguró a su hermano que esta era la primera de las tentaciones sin fin que Guilliman tendría que enfrentar. Riendo cruelmente, se burló de que el Señor de Ultramar nunca podría volver a confiar en ningún sentimiento de triunfo o satisfacción propia. Disgustado, Guilliman condujo su espada a través del amuleto y dentro de la horrible criatura que lo portaba. Sin embargo, mientras el triunfo retumbaba, las palabras de Fulgrim continuaron resonando en la mente de Guilliman. Lo harían durante muchos días solares por venir. Zona de Guerra: Ultramar A medida que se reunían los ejércitos destinados a la reconquista de Ultramar, cada vez más fuerzas imperiales acudieron en busca del Primarca. Algunos, como los Ángeles Oscuros y la Guardia del Cuervo, enviaron pequeñas delegaciones para determinar la veracidad de este milagro. Otros llegaron con esperanza y celebración, bandas de Lobos Espaciales, Cicatrices Blancas, Templarios Negros y otros que se apresuraron al lado del Primarca. Un momento glorioso sucedió cuando los Templarios Negros cayeron en el planeta, porque se reunieron con el Gran Mariscal Amalrich, quien era el unico de su hermandad que había sobrevivido a la batalla en el santuario de Guilliman. Al observar la celosa luz en los ojos de Amalrich, los Capellanes lo declararon tocado por la Mano del Emperador. El Mariscal fue llevado a bordo del Crucero de Ataque Azote de Herejes, y ceñido con la Armadura y la Espada Negra del Campeón del Emperador. Otros, también, llegaron a Ultramar ante la insistencia de sus videntes, astrópatas, adivinos y señores. Acorazados de la Armada Imperial, regios barones de Mundos Caballeros alineados al Imperio, flotas de buques de guerra del Adeptus Mechanicus y sus Legiones Titánicas, procesiones del Adeptus Administratum; todos vinieron a ofrecer fidelidad al Primarca. Un ciber-sínodo grotesco del Adeptus Ministorum descendió sobre la Fortaleza de Hera e insistió en confirmar primero, y luego proclamar, la supuesta divinidad de Guilliman. El horrorizado Primarca aceptó tal beatificación solo después de que Celestine y Greyfax le impresionaran cuán poderosa era la Eclesiarquía en el Imperio del 41º Milenio. Es mejor tenerlos como aliados que como enemigos. Antes de su partida de la fortaleza, Guilliman tenía una orden de trabajo más. Decretó que ahora era una era de ira y guerra, en la que el aprendizaje y la tradición debían dejarse de lado. El Primarca conmocionó a su Capítulo al ordenar que la gran Biblioteca de Ptolomeo prohibiera a todos los asistentes bajo pena de muerte. Hasta el último tomo, cada secreto persistente y peligroso contenido en ese antiguo repositorio estaba encerrado detrás de mamparos de adamantium y armas de Servidor. Al mismo tiempo, se construyó una nueva sala de guerra. Este era el Strategium Ultra, desde donde la reconquista de Guilliman podía trazarse, rastrearse y coordinarse. Pena Fue durante el séptimo mes solar de la campaña para reconquistar Ultramar que se informaron los primeros casos de una nueva enfermedad misteriosa. A lo largo de los sistemas Drohl, Talassar y Parmenio, La Ultramar Auxilia se encontró llorando sin control. En medio de la batalla, los guerreros fueron cegados por corrientes interminables de lágrimas viscosas y apestosas que abrieron los ojos y pronto los pusieron rojos. Superados por el dolor, los enfermos lloraron y lloraron por los días solares. En los peores casos, los llamados "Llorones" quedaron cegados permanentemente cuando sus globos oculares infectados se pudrieron. La enfermedad, que pronto se denominó Dolor o Peste llorona, se propagó con alarmante rapidez. Se creía que su vector era una infestación de pequeños ácaros que se encontraban entre las raciones, retorciéndose dentro de uniformes y paquetes de municiones, e incluso se derramaban de las páginas de los Documentos Imperiales. Nada impidió que los ácaros se multiplicaran, y ninguna medida sanitaria podría mantenerlos fuera por mucho tiempo. El asedio de la Fortaleza de Leotold se derrumbó gracias a la influencia perniciosa de la Pena, mientras que la ofensiva Ravishol, que antes era devastadora, se detuvo a medida que su ejército humano se redujo a reveladores cegados y llorosos. Roboute Guilliman se apresuró a Talassar, dejando la guerra en el Sistema Prandium al mando del Jefe de Bibliotecología Tigurius y la Inquisidora Greyfax. Guilliman sabía que solo los soldados mortales habían sido afectados por el llanto; ningún guerrero del Adeptus Astartes ni el esclavo tecnológico del Mechanicus habían caído víctimas de la enfermedad todavía. Además, aunque no eran absolutamente inmunes, solo se habían reportado muy pocos casos entre las filas de las Adepta Sororitas. Algunos atribuyeron esto a la presencia de la Santa Viviente entre las fuerzas de la reconquista, pero más creyeron que era la fe duradera de las Hermanas de Batalla lo que los protegía de la enfermedad. Sea cual sea la verdad, Guilliman no temía la terrible enfermedad, sino que estaba mucho más preocupado por el destino del soldado mortal. El Primarca llegó al mundo de Ravishol esperando nada más que tristeza y horror. La conmoción de Guilliman, por lo tanto, fue tan grande como la de cualquiera cuando, en cambio, trajo un milagro. Desafiando las martilleantes defensas antiaéreas de los campamentos de los Guerreros de Hierro en las llanuras del circuito, Guilliman hizo que su Thunderhawk lo llevara al campamento imperial fortificado en el Valle de Soldermask. Sobre el trueno de las armas de Servidores del campamento, ocupadas manteniendo a raya a los demonios, Guilliman ordenó al comandante Ultramarine del campamento que lo condujera a los enfermos. Había varios miles de ellos solo en este campamento, tripulaciones de tanques, artilleros y soldados de infantería dentro de enormes cobertizos prefabricados. Desde el exterior, la cacofonía amortiguada de los lamentos de los Llorones era inquietante incluso para Roboute Guilliman, pero cuando las puertas blindadas del cobertizo se abrieron, los sollozos desaparecieron lentamente. Uno por uno, la afligida Auxilia se levantó de sus camas enfermas, parpadeando con asombro con ojos que podían ver una vez más. Incluso aquellos que habían perdido la vista por completo disminuyeron con suspiros de alivio, saboreando su primer sueño verdadero en semanas. Nadie podía explicar cómo, pero la presencia de Guilliman había curado a los Llorones. Lo mismo ocurrió en tres campamentos más a lo largo del frente estancado de la ofensiva. Dondequiera que caminara Roboute Guilliman, el dolor era expulsado y los ácaros que lo extendían morían hasta que se acumulaban en montículos negros. El Departamento Medicae y los apotecarios estaban perdidos, pero la Eclesiarquía se apresuró a declarar el fenómeno milagroso. Fue la misericordia del Emperador, gritaron, blandiendo sus Aquilas. Así comenzaron las largas semanas solares de peregrinación implacable para Guilliman, mientras se apresuraba de un sitio de enfermedad a otro. El Primarca sabía que mientras se dedicaba a curar a sus seguidores, sus atenciones se alejaron de la guerra en general. De todos los hijos del Emperador, Guilliman era quizás el más humano, y su compasión no le permitiría ignorar la difícil situación de sus seguidores si podía curarlos. Los días solares se convirtieron en semanas, durante las cuales el llanto continuó extendiéndose y, lo que es peor, volvió a aparecer en sitios que el Primarca ya había limpiado. Sin el genio incomparable de Guilliman, la reconquista comenzó a sufrir, las fuerzas del Caos anularon las victorias imperiales en los sistemas Veridian y Tarvan. Todo el tiempo, las terribles tormentas disformes que habían sacudido a Ultramar y sus alrededores empeoraron aún más. Pronto, susurraron los Navegantes, el Imperio de los Ultramarines podría estar separado del resto de la galaxia, tal como una vez hace diez mil años terranos durante la época de la Tormenta de Ruina. Fue el Gran Maestro Aldrik Voldus quien finalmente se enfrentó a Guilliman. En una acalorada discusión, durante la cual el Gran Maestro desafió la ira del Primarca, obligó a Guilliman a reconocer lo que ya sabía. Semanas de trabajo habían sido en vano. Guilliman no estaba curando a sus súbditos, porque ese no era su don. En la peste llorona, Voldus reconoció todas las características de Nurgle. Lo más probable es que el Dios de la Peste simplemente retirara sus dudosas bendiciones de sus víctimas a la llegada de Guilliman, y luego las restaurara alegremente una vez que el Primarca se hubiera marchado. El Señor de Ultramar estaba jugando en las manos del Dios de la Peste, su deseo de salvar a su pueblo pervertido en una trampa interminable de entropía y desesperación. Aunque furioso, Guilliman aceptó la sabiduría de Voldus. Además, vio que el deseo de Nurgle había sido atraparlo dentro de su propio reino y mantenerlo alejado del escenario galáctico más amplio. El Primarca se dio cuenta entonces de que su deseo de integridad, de una solución ordenada y un Ultramar inmaculado era, en sí mismo, un eco de los errores que había cometido hacía mucho tiempo. Nurgle no deseaba que Guilliman se fuera de Ultramar porque allí, el Primarca podía ser contenido como una peligrosa avispa en una botella. Pero esta guerra no pertenecía solo a Ultramar: fue una guerra para todo el Imperio. Guilliman vio que no podía perder más tiempo concentrándose únicamente en su propio imperio estelar. Debe ir a Terra. Con el corazón encogido, Roboute Guilliman detuvo sus esfuerzos para poner fin a la Peste llorona, y en su lugar encargó a sus apotecarios y capellanes de encontrar una cura espiritual para lo que claramente era una aflicción espiritual. El Primarca anunció su intención de emprender un gran viaje. Una vez antes, cuando los Dioses Oscuros habían amenazado al Imperio de la Humanidad, el Primarca de los Ultramarines había llegado a Terra demasiado tarde para cumplir con su deber. No volvería a cometer ese error. Guilliman tenía la intención de viajar a Terra, arrodillarse al pie del Trono Dorado y pedirle orientación a su padre. Consciente del empeoramiento de las Tormentas de Disformidad que azotan las puertas de disformidad de Ultramar, Guilliman anunció su intención de llegar a Terra tan pronto como se pudiera reunir una fuerza adecuada. El Primarca no viajaría solo; la galaxia se había convertido en un lugar oscuro y peligroso, mientras que los intentos de Slaanesh y Nurgle de tentarlo y engañarlo le habían demostrado a Guilliman que su resurrección había llamado la atención de los Poderes Ruinosos. Sin embargo, la guerra en Ultramar todavía estaba en curso, y con la partida de Guilliman, requeriría guerreros estratégicamente dotados para seguir empujando a las Fuerzas del Caos. Como tal, Guilliman reunió una fuerza selecta de Hermanos de Batalla de la 1ª, 2ª y 3ª Compañía de los Ultramarines para acompañarlo a Terra, y le otorgó el honor de su mando al Capitán Cato Sicarius. Además solicitó que el Gran Maestro Aldrik Voldus y los Caballeros Grises de la 3ª Hermandad se unan a su Cruzada. Otros prometieron su ayuda a la causa del Primarca, incluida la fuerza reunida de los Capítulos del Primogenitor, y el Campeón del Emperador Amalrich y sus hermanos Templarios Negros. La Santa Viviente, la Inquisidora y el Archimagos Dominus Cawl también acompañaron al Primarca: cualquier ayuda que ellos o las fuerzas militares bajo su mando pudieran proporcionar al Primarca con mucho gusto se les daría. Guilliman aceptó con gratitud todas las ofertas de ayuda antes de ordenar a Marneus Calgar, el bibliotecario jefe Tigurius y el capitán Agemman que permanecieran y lideraran la reconquista de Ultramar. Los Ynnari, mientras tanto, eligieron este momento para partir. Los Eldar tenían sus propias guerras que luchar, y ya habían permanecido demasiado tiempo en medio de los asuntos humanos. Aunque Cadia había caído, aún quedaban mundos en los que los pilones negros construidos por los Necrones se mantenían firmes. Fue a estos a los que los Ynnari asistirían ahora, dirigiendo a aquellos de su raza que escucharían para defenderlos y así frenar el poder en expansión de la Disformidad. Relato Oficial Imperio: Despedida Cruzando el vacìo A petición de sus Navegantes, los capitanes de las naves espaciales solo se atrevieron a dar saltos cortos a través de la disformidad. Estos sprints rápidos y terroríficos terminaron, la mayoría de las veces, en inmersiones frenéticas en el espacio real a medida que los peligros se volvían demasiado grandes. Se perdieron varias naves, y muchos capitanes suplicaron a Santa Celestine por sus bendiciones para salvaguardar su paso. El Orgullo de Hera sufrió una brecha en el Campo Geller que vio cómo los demonios encorvados del Dios de la Peste se derramaban como pus animado a través de sus corredores. La Inquisidora Greyfax reunió una fuerza de Adepta Sororitas y Praetores para luchar contra las monstruosas criaturas. La llama limpiadora y los rayos santificados se usaron para destruir la infestación demoníaca de cubierta en cubierta, obligándolos a alejarse de los sistemas de soporte vital que habían tratado de inundar con esporas y suciedad infecciosa. Greyfax misma terminó la incursión en un duelo rápido con el hinchado demonio de la peste que lideró la invasión, saltando desde un pórtico y matando a la abominación de un solo golpe. A pesar de muchos de estos horrores, y un número cada vez mayor de vidas perdidas, ninguno en la Cruzada Terrana habló tanto de regresar. Se enfrentaron a las Tormentas de disformidad a instancias de un Primarca vivo, en una misión a la Sagrada Tierra. Aquellos que se desmoronaron ante un llamado tan trascendental seguramente serían condenados. Guilliman viajó a bordo del antiguo buque insignia de su Capítulo, la Honor de Marcragge, una nave que, a diferencia de lo que lo rodeaba, proporcionó al Primarca un refugio de familiaridad. Había esperado que las Tormentas Disformes alrededor de Ultramar fueran enviadas para atraparlo. A medida que la flota de la Cruzada viajaba cada vez más lejos de su reino, y las tormentas seguían enfurecidas, el Primarca se desilusionó de esta idea esperanzadora. Cada vez que la flota abandonaba el espacio disforme, Guilliman hacía que sus Astrópatas peinaran la oscuridad del vacío, tratando de atrapar cada fragmento de información que pudieran sobre el estado del Imperio. Con el Immaterium en la agitación, esos comunicados astropáticos que lograron pasar fueron confusos y una pesadilla para interpretar. Las noticias que la flota de la Cruzada logró reunir fueron uniformemente terribles, y dejaron a todos los que los escucharon fríos de miedo. Sistemas estelares enteros estaban siendo devastados por fenómenos antinaturales, incursiones demoníacas y plagas de mutación. Los psíquicos proliferaron, trayendo consigo horribles manifestaciones y estallidos de terror y locura. Poblaciones leales se levantaron como multitudes aullando de Cultistas del Caos de ojos locos. Ejércitos enteros de xenos, saturados de las energías de la Disformidad, lucharon junto a los demonios para llevar la muerte a los mundos del Imperio. Las fortalezas estelares pidieron ayuda, sus corredores eran rondadas por entidades disformes antinaturales que se aprovechaban de sus guarniciones. Las flotas y los convoyes imperiales lanzaron llamadas de socorro al Empíreo cuando fueron arrastrados a años luz de su curso, o fueron acosados por terroríficos depredadores empíricos. Aquellos que sabían de tales cosas no podían evitar establecer paralelismos con los rumores de los terrores de la Vieja Noche y con la Era de los Conflictos, pero ninguno, ni siquiera Guilliman, se atrevió a expresar en voz alta tal pensamiento. A pesar de la agitación letal de la Disformidad, la Cruzada Terran siguió adelante. Para los soldados a bordo de los barcos, las semanas pasaron en una agonía de inactividad y agitación. Se requería un estado constante de alerta alta en toda la flota, ya que en cualquier momento podrían sufrir un ataque repentino. Sin embargo, a pesar de su constante entrenamiento, perforación, patrullaje y espera, todavía no ocurrió nada. Incluso entre los guerreros sobrehumanos del Adeptus Astartes, los ánimos se deshilacharon y la inacción se irritó. Para los miles de ilotas, armadores navales y siervos capitulares que tripulaban y acuartelaban los vastos buques de guerra, el estado constante de preparación inevitablemente pasó factura. La expectativa de peligro se convirtió en la norma, hasta el punto de que la laxitud se deslizó y la conciencia se deslizó. Cuando por fin la flota se vio amenazada, llegó tan repentinamente que incluso el Adeptus Astartes y Cult Mechanicus fueron tomados por sorpresa. La Cruzada Terran había llegado a los bordes finales de la grieta Warp permanente conocida como la Vorágine, y la había encontrado hinchada con un nuevo y temible poder. Los navegantes de la flota gimieron y gritaron, describiendo algo parecido a un tornado interminable e imposiblemente inmenso que retumbaba en la Disformidad. Donde deberían haber existido canales seguros, las ondulantes franjas del Maelstrom lo habían consumido todo. Incluso la luz del Astronomican se volvió vacilante y casi imposible de ver. Temiendo por la seguridad de su nave brutalizada, los capitanes de la flota ordenaron la traducción inmediata al espacio real. Uno por uno, los buques de guerra imperiales atravesaron el menisco de la realidad, como serpentinas de ectoplasma resplandeciente que se arrastraba desde sus cascos mientras regresaban a la fría oscuridad del vacío. Sin embargo, el estruendoso estremecimiento a bordo de cada vacío continuó, intensificándose violentamente a medida que los impactos estallaban en los Escudos del Vacío y se estrellaban contra los cascos blindados. La fragata Hawk Lords, Alas de la Gloria, fue destrozada por una serie de explosiones antes de que su tripulación supiera quién o qué los estaba atacando. El Ultramarines Strike Cruiser, Primarch's Wrath, sufrió un daño paralizante después de chocar con el White Consuls Cruiser Hope and Fire cuando ambas naves voladoras intentaron maniobras evasivas ciegas. Órdenes frenéticas llenaron la red Vox y resonaron a través de los puentes de los barcos cavernosos mientras los capitanes furiosos intentaban establecer la naturaleza de la amenaza. ¿Se había retirado la flota de la Disformidad y había entrado directamente en un campo de asteroides? ¿Habían, por casualidad, emergido en medio de un enemigo hostil? A medida que Auspexes se despertaba y las plataformas de observación estaban cubiertas, la sombría verdad se hizo evidente. Las naves dispersas de la Cruzada Terran habían salido del Immaterium directamente a los cañones atronadores de una armada enemiga, pero parecía que no era casualidad. Dispuestos en formaciones de emboscada perfectas había docenas de buques de guerra Traidores con marcas barrocas y antiguas en sus cascos. Los leales se dieron cuenta de que una vasta flota de los Mil Hijos los rodeaba, desplegados como si supieran con precisión dónde y cuándo las fuerzas imperiales emergerían de la Disformidad. En el corazón del enemigo colgaba una extraña nave de inmensidad inigualable. Solo Guilliman realmente entendió su apariencia, reconociendo un vasto facsímil plateado de la Gran Pirámide de Tizca. Esa estructura de cristal ciclópeo había sido una vez la gloria suprema en la ciudad capital de la Legión de los Mil Hijos del mismo nombre, en su mundo natal perdido de Prospero. Ahora fue resucitado en esta nueva forma monstruosamente magnificada. Vasta como un planetoide, repleto de cubiertas de armas de forma y función desconcertantes, y con un inmenso ojo de cristal rojo en un flanco, la estructura demente era claramente el buque insignia y el fuerte estrella para la flota enemiga. Guilliman conocía bien a sus hermanos, y aquí, en este grandioso motor de guerra, vio todas las características del Daemon Primarch Magnus the Red. En la retaguardia de la flota lealista se alzaban los brazos espirales que se retorcían del Maelstrom, un imponente muro de energías antinaturales y una hechicería psíquica que prometía locura y muerte. Ante ellos estaba la pirámide titánica de Magnus, sus buques de guerra acompañantes que ya golpeaban la armada de Guilliman. Con pocas opciones, los Imperiales lucharon lo mejor que pudieron en su dispersión dispersa. Los torpedos dispararon desde los tubos de lanzamiento, surcando el vacío para hacer agujeros en los barcos de guerra herejes. Los escuadrones de combate se agitaron, saliendo a la oscuridad como insectos enjambre. Los conjuntos de lanzas escupieron luz rubí, y las cubiertas de armas tronaron cuando las naves imperiales intentaron frenéticamente luchar para liberarse de sus enemigos emboscados. Sin embargo, las naves imperiales estaban sufriendo un terrible martilleo, los escudos vacíos se derrumbaron y las cubiertas rotas arrojaron a los tripulantes al espacio. Los motores se encendieron y murieron bajo una descarga de disparos de macro proyectiles, mientras que los torpedos inscritos con runas se extendieron para llenar los puentes y revistas Leales con Warpflame. Guilliman emitió un flujo constante de órdenes a sus capitanes, haciendo todo lo que estaba en su poder para reunir sus barcos y contraatacar. Interiormente se enfureció, tanto por la artimaña de su hermano caído como por su propio fracaso para prever la emboscada. En comparación, Magnus observó con gran satisfacción desde la gran galería de observación a bordo de su buque insignia piramidal. Había diseñado el vasto vacío, llamado La venganza de Tizca, utilizando los recursos saqueados de un mundo imperial y las energías sin nombre de la Disformidad. Ahora conjuró esos poderes empíricos nuevamente, con un propósito completamente diferente. Una camarilla de poderosos Hechiceros del Caos se paró alrededor de Magnus, cantando palabras ominosas mientras levantaba los brazos en alto y gritaba en tonos estentorianos. El Rey Carmesí llamó y el Warp respondió, enrollando zarcillos de poder que se unían para rodear la flota maltratada de Guilliman. Magnus juzgó que el daño hecho era suficiente. No deseaba matar a su hermano resucitado. No todavía, de todos modos. Por lo tanto, con un encantamiento final en auge, Magnus completó su hechizo. Los zarcillos empíricos se apretaron fuertemente alrededor de las naves espaciales de la Cruzada Terran y, con una gran llave convulsiva, los arrastraron profundamente al furioso corazón del Maelstrom. Dentro del Torbellino El Pnademoniun se apoderó de las naves de la Cruzada Terrana. Zarcillos aplastantes de energía empírica se enroscan en la nave como los tentáculos de una bestia leviatán. Los mamparos se arrugaron. Los escudos explotaron. Fuegos furiosos atravesaron las cubiertas. Impotentes, los buques de guerra fueron arrancados de la realidad y arrastrados a la Disformidad. Los desesperados adeptos tecnológicos tropezaron con sus rituales mientras luchaban con locura para levantar los Campos Geller de sus naves. Algunos tuvieron éxito, pero otras naves se inundaron con aullidos de demonios cuando fueron arrastrados, sin recompensa, a la Disformidad. La locura y la matanza proliferaron, y solo la firme determinación de los ejércitos imperiales a bordo de cada nave impidió que la Cruzada Terrana fuera aniquilada por completo. Para cuando el hechizo de Magnus siguió su curso, las naves espaciales de la Cruzada Terran habían sido arrojadas profundamente en el Maelstrom. La flota de Guilliman, al menos, había sido escupida de las fauces de la disformidad una vez más, pero la región en la que ahora se encontraban era maldita. Dentro del Maelstrom, la realidad y el Immaterium se fundieron en un extraño pantano. Las estrellas se perdieron detrás de velos a la deriva de energía antinatural, y mundos retorcidos colgaban en medio de la brillante penumbra. Mientras Belisarius Cawl coordinaba equipos de reparación de emergencia para apuntalar naves mutiladas y salvar la nave voladora más dañada de la destrucción, Guilliman y sus capitanes calcularon el costo de la emboscada. Sus pérdidas fueron aleccionadoras. De una vasta flota de ciento doce buques de guerra de la Marina del Espacio, la Armada Imperial y el Adeptus Mechanicus, apenas quedaba la mitad. Algunos se habían perdido durante la emboscada de los Mil Hijos, destruidos por el poder de fuego abrasador. Más había desaparecido durante el caos posterior, arrojado a la deriva sobre las mareas del Immaterium. Algunos, sin duda, habrían llegado al espacio real, dispersos lejos del cuerpo principal de la flota. Otros seguramente se perdieron o algo peor. Todas las naves de combate lanzadas durante la breve batalla habían desaparecido, sus tripulaciones estaban condenadas a una muerte fría y solitaria en el vacío del espacio. Cientos y cientos de Siervos Capitulares, tripulantes humanos y Servidores resultaron heridos, locos o muertos, e incluso los Marines Espaciales sufrieron bajas considerables. La Cruzada Terran se había reducido a una sombra de su antigua fuerza militar. Ningún buque de guerra había sobrevivido a la emboscada ileso, y muchos sufrieron graves daños. A pesar de lo devastadoras que fueron las pérdidas repentinas, todavía no eran la mayor preocupación de Roboute Guilliman. Al reunirse en su estratium con los líderes reunidos de la Marina Imperial y del Espacio, Guilliman expresó su creencia de que los Mil Hijos debieron haber sabido, por algún medio infernal, dónde y cuándo la Cruzada se rompería de la Disformidad. La flota de Guilliman había sido rodeada. ¿Por qué no dar el golpe mortal? El Primarca sabía muy bien que Magnus no hacía nada sin un plan, entonces, ¿por qué había permitido que su antiguo hermano sobreviviera? Fue una pregunta que volvió a torturar a los líderes de la Cruzada Terran una y otra vez en los días oscuros que siguieron. Varados en lo profundo de la Vorágine, sin ver al Astronomican del Emperador que los guiara, los guerreros supervivientes de la Cruzada Terran necesitaron algunos medios para determinar su ubicación y encontrar el camino de regreso al espacio real. Aprovechando las débiles transmisiones que emanan de una luna cercana, la Cruzada se dirigió hacia el oscuro planetoide con la esperanza de capturar a un Traidor que podría actuar como su guía involuntario, o bien obtener acceso a los instrumentos de astronavegación herejes endurecidos contra las energías turbulentas de la Disformidad. . Los grupos de desembarco montaron naves de combate y vainas de caída, que se deslizaron a través de cielos delgados y pálidos hacia un mundo oscuro y vidrioso. Los leales encontraron continentes vitrificados, estériles de vida y atormentados por vientos poderosos y gritones. Una luz antinatural brilló en lo profundo del corazón de cristal del mundo, y dejó a todos los que la vieron con una ominosa sensación de temor. La fuerza de ataque de la Cruzada localizó una fortificación blindada entre una serie de montañas, aferrándose como una lapa en medio de picos deslumbrantes. Guilliman mismo dirigió el ataque que rompió las defensas, encontrando para su disgusto que una banda harapienta de marines espaciales renegados acuartelaba la fortaleza. Las cruces pintadas sobre la iconografía del Capítulo de estos guerreros los identificaban como Corsarios Rojos, y el Primarca expresó su ira y frustración reprimida sobre los desafortunados Traidores. La batalla fue breve, Guilliman y un trío de Caballeros del Terror de Aldrik Voldus matando a los líderes de los Renegados. Sin embargo, cuando Guilliman se apoderó con éxito del último Traidor vivo en la matriz Vox de la fortaleza, se produjo una manifestación diabólica. El aire crujió y la escarcha se arrastró por las paredes de metal de la cámara cuando una amenazante presencia demoníaca habló a través de la boca del cautivo. En dos voces burlonas, la presencia le dijo a Guilliman que, incluso ahora, Ultramar ardía. La cosa malvada se rió de que el Primarca había abandonado a su pueblo para vagar por el Vorágine para siempre. Luego, giró la cabeza del cautivo con un crujido repugnante. Guilliman maldijo cuando su única ventaja expiró en medio del chisporroteo y la explosión de sobrecargar los bancos Vox. Se comprometió a localizar al demonio y sacarle la verdad sin importar lo que tuviera que soportar. Después de su encuentro en la luna de cristal, la flota de Cruzada vagó sin rumbo. Sin ninguna indicación del curso que los llevaría a Terra, Guilliman eligió una dirección basada en su mejor suposición, e instruyó a sus capitanes para que se volvieran a ese rumbo. Por el momento, esperar alcanzar el borde del Maelstrom parecía el único plan disponible. Cuánto tiempo viajaron, nadie podía decirlo, porque el tiempo no pasaba normalmente en ese lugar que desafía la cordura. El Primarca fue atormentado por las palabras del demonio, y buscó cualquier oportunidad para descubrir lo que podría estar ocurriendo fuera del Maelstrom. Su oportunidad llegó cuando las naves exploradoras informaron que una nave Hereje patrullaba un planeta retorcido y carnoso que colgaba en medio de una nube de enormes cráneos cristalinos. Al ordenar un ataque inmediato, Guilliman ordenó que la recopilación de inteligencia se tratara como prioridad. Mapas, gráficos, himnarios cartográficos, navegadores de traidores o lo que sea que haya pasado por los astrópatas en este lugar infernal, fueron incautados. La flota barrió el mundo de la carne, solo para que el planeta se defendiera. Las naves espaciales renegadas pertenecían a una banda de guerra de los Hijos del Emperador, quienes comenzaron una atronadora resonancia empírica que causó ondas de choque sónicas devastadoras en las bocas de los cráneos de cristal. Al mismo tiempo, el planeta mismo desplegó tentáculos augméticos, suturados en su superficie viva. Estos monstruosos apéndices arrebataron varias naves espaciales Mechanicus del vacío y las metieron en unas fauces del tamaño de un continente que se desabrocharon en el polo norte del planeta. El bombardeo sostenido de torpedos finalmente cortó los tentáculos revestidos de hierro del mundo, mientras el fuego de Lance destrozó docenas de cráneos cristalinos y paralizó varios de los buques de guerra de los Niños del Emperador. La nave Traidora restante se volvió cola, dejando a sus camaradas a bordo. Sin embargo, la sensación de triunfo de Guilliman fue una vez más de corta duración. Aunque se recuperaron docenas de mapas estelares y mapas, todos estaban en blanco, excepto por las palabras burlonas del demonio a Guilliman en la fortaleza del Corsario Rojo, repetidas una y otra vez. Cualquiera que sea esta entidad, claramente buscó atormentar al Primarca Caminos Oscuros Amidst fluctuating time streams and reality-warping energy storms, the damaged ships of the Terran Crusade struggled on. Within the Maelstrom lurked countless foes, for this was a region that had long harboured the warring minions of Chaos. More than once, the Imperial ships were forced to fight off opportunist raids by sleek hunting packs of Traitor warships. Amidst a thousand-mile-wide cloud of corrosive spores, the Crusade ships found themselves beset by swarms of vast plague flies as large as frigates. The monstrous insects took a savage toll upon the smaller ships of the Crusade, until Saint Celestine took to the Navigator's observation blister of the Macragge's Honour. Unleashing her holy light in a blazing psychic shockwave, the Living Saint purged the hideous daemon beasts from the void. In another uncharted reach, the Crusade craft found ghostly phantasms whirling around their hulls. Howling Warp ghosts screamed through the corridors of the Space Marine craft, swarming around the ancient relics and honoured banners of their Reclusiam shrines. The Adeptus Astartes realised, to their horror, that these aetheric leeches were draining the holy energies from their treasured relics, dragging faint, screaming ghosts from the enshrined helms, blades and scrolls. In this fight, the Grey Knights came to the fore, Aldrik Voldus swiftly splitting his brotherhood and deploying them by rapid teleport strike into his allies' shrines. Fighting alongside the outraged Chaplains who guarded the relics, the daemon-hunting warriors drove the Warp leeches back and banished them to the void. So it went on for an indeterminate and bewildering span of time that felt like impossible centuries. As the Terran Crusade fleet forged on, their supplies running low and their crews exhausted by constant battle, Roboute Guilliman became ever angrier and more distracted. Unbeknownst to all, the Primarch was bedevilled by horrific visions. Guilliman saw the Realm of Ultramar in flames, and the bastions of Mankind blowing away as ash upon the blood-wet winds of change. He was tormented by images of Mars, shattered into hundreds of pieces and raining down as flaming meteors upon the once-proud ruin of Terra. He saw the Golden Throne as a sparking, fire-wreathed wreck, the Emperor's blackened corpse burning within it. Daemonic voices whispered into Guilliman's mind, day and night. If they had told him the scenes he saw had already come to pass, that would have been cruel enough. But this torment was more cunning yet, for instead the voices told Guilliman that the visions were flashes of foresight. They were glimpses of a singularly dark fate that would transpire only should he escape the Maelstrom and complete his journey to Terra. Relent in his attempt to escape, accept his Warp-tainted prison for all eternity, give in to madness and despair, and he would spare the Imperium from coming to this terrible end. Guilliman wrestled internally with each passing solar day, yet he showed no sign of his struggle to those who looked to him for leadership and hope. The Primarch maintained his veneer of strength and continued to pursue his goal of escape, determined that he would not believe the lies of any entity that inhabited that hellish place. Still, the Primarch's resolve eroded slowly, as a cliff washed away by the endless ocean waves. Long had the Crusade fleet sailed the Maelstrom’s corrupted tides when they came to Bathamor. In the solar hours before they hove into orbit, the name of this cursed world leapt into the mind of every psyker in the fleet, repeating over and over in a malicious whisper until those that heard them cried the planet's name aloud. Auspex scans revealed an infernal world of kaleidoscopic crystal jungles, laced through by glimmering rivers of fire. They also showed Vox signatures and energy readouts commensurate with a sizeable Renegade presence, and so Guilliman ordered the captains of the Terran Crusade fleet to prepare their forces for an immediate combat drop. Once more, intelligence gathering would be paramount -- with their sanity and resolve weakening by the solar day, the Crusade's members knew they must escape the Maelstrom soon or perish within this seemingly endless expanse of tainted space. Sweeping down from on high, the Imperial armies slammed into the crystal jungles amidst explosions of jagged shards. Advancing upon the greatest concentration of energy signatures, the Loyalist forces cursed in anger and bewilderment as their Auspex readings winked out like will-o'-the-wisps. The next moment, Tzeentchian daemons attacked from all sides. Barrages of sorcerous flame and mutating energies clawed at the Ultramarines and their allies. Crystal trees detonated like huge fragmentation bombs, lacerating all who fought around them. In the midst of the madness, Roboute Guilliman found himself face to face with the architect of the devious ambush. A croaking, two-headed nightmare clad in shimmering robes and wielding a potent staff of temporal power, Kairos Fateweaver coalesced from amidst a glittering storm of crystal shards. Confronting Guilliman, one of the hideous Greater Daemon's avian heads mocked the Primarch's continued efforts to escape, sneering that he had scried every possible strand of the future and every last one ended in his failure. Kairos' other head crowed that Guilliman had always been the most unremarkable of the Emperor's sons, and was as incapable of saving the Imperium now as he was when he fell to his superior brother. Guilliman bellowed in fury and drove Kairos back with swings of his burning blade, before leading his stricken forces in a fighting retreat. The Terran Crusade and its leader would not fall to the Oracle's manipulation so easily... Anxious as to the fate of the wider Imperium, and with several ships now left scuttled in their wake due to accumulated battle damage, the Crusade fleet came upon a world of black marble and bloody seas. They struck hard and fast against several Red Corsairs strongholds, eliminating outlying enclaves before finally laying siege to a fortified palace upon a claw-shaped headland above booming, gory waves. While Archmagos Cawl coordinated the siege, Greyfax and Captain Cato Sicarius led a daring raiding party that threw open the palace's main gates and sealed the Heretics' doom. Guilliman knew that this victory offered a brief respite at best. The screaming of the bloody ocean was eroding his followers' sanity, and amongst the ashen skies overhead, huge, dark shapes stirred with the promise of terrible danger. Yet the logistics of stripping the Corsairs' fortress would take time, even with the Primarch's meticulously efficient plans. Thus, as Mechanicus bulk haulers rumbled back and forth through the planet's atmosphere, Guilliman found himself wandering alone through the twisted citadel's corridors. It was as he entered a chamber of crystal statues that a shimmering mist rose before the Primarch's eyes. Amidst the swirling patterns of light and shadow, a slender figure flickered into being. Guilliman caught the suggestion of willowy limbs and billowing cloth, a curving alien helm and a long stave, before the figure spoke. Like its image, the manifestation's voice swam in and out of Guilliman's perception. Yet the Lord of Ultramar was able to decipher instructions from the figure's words. Guilliman was wary of further trickery, suspicious and plagued by echoes of the daemonic whispers that Kairos Fateweaver had projected into his mind. Yet he sensed no taint of Chaos in this manifestation; the energies given off by the shimmering vision were more akin to those of the Eldar who had aided his resurrection. At last, after repeating its message several times, the figure vanished, leaving the Primarch with a new sense of purpose and, perhaps, even a sliver of hope. Here, at last, was a heading, and Guilliman meant to follow it. A traves de la tormenta Upon leaving the unnamed world of black marble and blood, the remnants of the Terran Crusade fleet set out with new determination. The Crusade now numbered a third of the ships that had departed Ultramar, but they were still led by Guilliman's flagship, Macragge's Honour, and they still stood ready for battle at any moment. They had a heading at last, albeit one derived from the omen-laden whispering of an unknown figure. Plasma Drives lit with thundering flame, the warships of the Imperium clove through veils of frozen ichor and showers of meteors encrusted with staring eyes. They followed a distant, glimmering star of pure white, until it resolved itself into a massive flaming hole in reality. Turning to a new heading as this prophesied landmark was reached, the Crusade swept next through a sprawling region of mauve gas clouds that formed into unrecognisable sigils and shimmered with the eldritch power of change. Emerging from the far edge of the gas belt after many solar days, the Crusade's Auspexes detected a triad of planets, all whirling around one another in an endless dance. This, again, was just as the mystical interloper had told Guilliman it would be, and the Primarch's hope swelled within him at the promise of escape. Following the hidden stranger's directions, the fleet changed its heading once again, angling away from the spinning mass of planets and making for a distantly visible constellation of jade green glimmers. Soon, if the Eldar apparition was to be believed, the Terran Crusade would at last escape from the Maelstrom, but they would first have to brave what the figure had described as the resting place of hollow ghosts. At first, the region appeared as a silvered speckling of space, stretching out in all directions ahead of the fleet. Gradually, those glimmering motes grew in size and definition until, at a distance of no more than a few thousand Terran miles, they resolved themselves into a breathtaking and eerie sight. Thousands upon thousands of wrecked starships drifted here, their hulls linked together by vast webs of brass chain. Lit by the jade stars that loomed in the middle distance, derelict voidcraft of every sort trailed wreckage behind them as they hung silently in their cursed afterlife. Some were familiar: ancient marks of Imperial warship, splinter-boned Eldar wrecks, hollowed Kroot Warspheres, broken-backed Hrud Warrenships, and the empty remnants of Nicassar Dhows. Others were unidentifiable: black needles of glassy material, ravaged structures like space-borne hive cities, vast, angular leviathans and tiny, ellipsoid ships little bigger than a Drop Pod. How they had all come to be abandoned here was an unsettling puzzle. The hazard that they -- and their binding chains -- presented was clear enough, however. The first thought of Guilliman and his captains was to attempt to circumnavigate the starship graveyard. Yet the ghost vessels trailed away, seemingly into infinity above, below and to either side. If the Terran Crusade wished to pass this way -- and it seemed that they must if they wanted their freedom -- then they would have to push forward between the wrecks. Guilliman gave the order. Spreading out with their Battle Barges to the fore, the Crusade ships engaged their drives and raised their Void Shields before edging into the starship graveyard. Progress was painfully slow, for in places the wrecks were chained just a Terran mile or so apart, tangled in vast chain webs like the prey of some cosmic arachnid. Tech-Magi and Chapter Serfs flinched and sweated at each new scrape and groan from their voidcrafts' hulls as the ships forged their slow and steady paths forward. Despite exercising every caution, the larger ships could not completely avoid collision. Ice-cold chain links left vast gashes and dents as they skidded across reinforced exteriors. Ancient wreckage broke apart and scattered into the void as, here and there, a Battle Barge or Strike Cruiser nosed aside a drifting ship that blocked its path. Each fresh collision, each breathless near-miss, left the crews' nerves frayed and passengers on edge as the solar hours crawled past. Finally, after a torturous stretch of time, Archmagos Cawl announced that he was reading clear space ahead. They were nearing the edge of the debris field and, more relieving still, it appeared they were nearing the edge of the Maelstrom. Past the last chained wrecks, the Navigators, who had been near-comatose for many solar days, could perceive a distant flicker. They awoke, muttering with increasing excitement that they could see once more the barest shred of the Astronomican's light, as though it shone through the gap in a partly-opened door. Guilliman counselled caution, and ordered his crews to continue their careful, steady progress, yet he too grew more hopeful by the moment. At last, they would escape the hellish region into which his brother Magnus had hurled them. At last they could continue on their road to sacred Terra. It was as the Macragge's Honour thrust aside the ravaged hulk of an ''Iconoclast''-class Destroyer, and an open path to the edge of the graveyard yawned before it, that the attack came. Cries of alarm rang through the flagship's bridge as power spikes flared amidst the derelicts on every side. Drifting Chaos warships lit their drives and unshrouded gun decks, as their internal power sources thundered to life. It was an ambush! The Red Corsairs had laid their trap with cunning and skill, guided by the precognitive powers of Kairos Fateweaver. They had inveigled their ships into the far edge of the starship graveyard, precisely where Kairos foresaw the loyalist fleet would pass through. With the careful application of cosmetic hull damage, and all internal systems shrouded to minimise emissions output, they had magclamped severed links of chain to their hulls and posed as just another scattering of lost voidcraft. Now, rumbling back to life all around the shocked Loyalists, the Red Corsair ships launched an ambush of the enemy in their midst. Lance beams seared through adamantium hulls. Noble warriors who had survived countless trials were obliterated by raging firestorms, or sucked helplessly out into the void. Guilliman cursed at what must surely be further Tzeentchian machinations. Hemmed in and outflanked, his fleet was at a catastrophic disadvantage. Several Imperial warships attempted to break free of the starship graveyard; these voidcraft were quickly targeted and, in the case of the Raven Guard frigate Silent Blade, shorn clean in two. The rest fought back, hammering fire into the void and tearing chunks from their attackers' warships at point-blank range. Chaos firepower continued to rain down upon Guilliman's fleet in a veritable storm. The Primarch saw that the foes -- secure in their numerical and positional superiority -- were aiming to cripple his ships rather than destroy them. Weapons batteries, Auspex arrays and enginariums were blasted one by one, leaving the Crusade ships drifting and defenceless. Guilliman knew what must surely come next, and cursed aloud as he saw wave after wave of Boarding Torpedoes released from the launch decks of the attacking craft. The Red Corsairs were, first and foremost, pirates. Now they sought to steal as many of the Terran Crusade's warships as they could, along with the arms and armour within. Barking orders for his warriors to prepare for boarders, Guilliman's mind whirled with counter-ambush strategies and breakout plans. Defence batteries studded the miles-long flanks of the Macragge's Honour. As the enemy boarding craft streaked closer, those guns roared to life, filling the void with sawing streams of firepower. Guilliman watched the external pict feeds intently, reading the patterns of destroyed foes and near-misses, and determining where the enemy's forces would hit his ship the hardest. The Primarch narrowed his eyes as the vessel's primary Auspex array took a direct hit, and the pict feeds drowned in sudden static. Turning away from the useless datafont, Guilliman issued a calm string of orders that were circulated fleet wide. For all those who could still hear him, the Primarch commended their remarkable courage and strength. He gave the order that all ships deploy their forces to defend their bridges, primary magazines, shield generators and Warp engines, then -- swallowing his own distaste at the religious connotations of the term -- wished the Emperor's blessings upon all who were about to engage the foe. Those who repelled boarders were to break free, and rendezvous beyond the edge of the Maelstrom as best they could. His orders issued and Captain Sicarius, Saint Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax at his side, Guilliman donned his helm and joined the warriors he had deployed to defend the bridge. He listened intently as Vox transmissions flew back and forth throughout the ship. Boarding Torpedoes impacted by the dozen. The lower crew decks were overrun. Sergeant Apstrophis' Devastator Marines held the bulkheads before the Enginarium Primus. Then came the news that a daemonic creature had manifested aboard, sweeping towards the bridge at the head of a Chaotic horde. Mere moments later the bridge bulkheads shuddered, then exploded inwards upon a bow wave of unnatural flame. Honor de Macragge The Chaos onslaught was swift and savage. It had to be, for though the Ultramarines were outnumbered, they held an incredibly defensible position against the enemy boarding parties. Guilliman's gene-sons crouched behind consoles artfully designed to double as barricades in the event of a breach. More of their number occupied elevated positions on gantries and balconies overlooking the bulkhead, taking up positions amidst the looming grandeur of the bridge. The first servants of Chaos to bound and cartwheel onto the bridge had absolutely no cover whatsoever. Pink Horrors of Tzeentch were engulfed in a storm of disciplined, expertly aimed fire that ripped them to pieces. Into the meat grinder poured more and more daemons, while behind them squads of Red Corsairs lunged through the blasted bulkhead and dashed for any cover they could find. Bolters roared, their massed echo and strobing muzzle flare rolling around the bridge like a raging thunderstorm. Daemons exploded in puffs of ectoplasm, smaller simulacra bursting from their corpses to be mowed down in turn. Traitor Space Marines clad in the defaced liveries of a dozen Chapters fell dead upon the killing ground, their armoured corpses continuing to twitch and jerk as more rounds struck them. Bolt shells, plasma blasts, las beams and missiles fell like hailstones, ripping the deck plates to blackened ruin and annihilating dozens of invaders. Inevitably, though, the boarders began to gain ground. A jetting blast of purple fire leapt out to turn a gantry to slime, sending a squad of Red Corsairs Terminators tumbling a hundred Terran feet into the Vox pits below. A cluster of Krak Grenades rained down upon a console-barricade, their detonations killing one Veteran and forcing two more to beat a hasty retreat. In the moments before he fell, a Red Corsair unloaded his Plasma Gun into another barricade, killing several Ultramarines before being killed by his own overheated weapon exploding in his hands. So it went on, the enemy eroding Guilliman's defences through reckless assaults. Then came Kairos. The first warning the Loyalists had of the Greater Daemon's onset was a thickening of the air as the Empyrean stirred. Librarian Pollonius cried out in sudden agony, hands clamped to his skull and eyes bulging as the energies of his own mind were turned against him. Fast as lightning, Guilliman hurled himself aside, barging Captain Sicarius clear in the instant before Pollonius' body detonated in a wave of blue fire. Several Ultramarines were not so lucky, their armour dissolving and flesh turning to ash as the flames washed over them. As the commanders of the Ultramarines reeled, the next rain of firepower to fall upon the kill box was transmogrified. Instead of mass-reactive shells and whistling grenades, all that struck the attacking hordes was shimmering starlight and wisps of silver steam. A fresh wave of leaping Flamers and cackling Horrors surged through the bulkhead and leapt to the attack. More Red Corsairs came with them, lumbering Chaos Terminators and fang-helmed warriors with Bolters blazing. At their back, his ragged wings spread wide and his staff tapping before him, came Kairos Fateweaver himself. Seeing the Lord of Change, Guilliman roared a battle cry and charged. Cato Sicarius and his warriors followed close on their Primarch's heels, while Greyfax and Celestine hurled themselves into the foe to either side. Guilliman stormed through daemons and Traitors alike, his flaming sword swiping in unstoppable arcs. Volleys of shells thundered from the Hand of Dominion, while the crushing fist obliterated an enemy with every blow. Daemons exploded in sprays of unnatural ichor before Guilliman's fury, while those Traitors foolish enough to stand in his path were smashed aside like rag dolls. Following the trail of carnage wrought by their Primarch, Sicarius and his Battle-Brothers hacked and blasted those enemies who tried to encircle Guilliman. Sicarius himself was a blur, his Talassarian Tempest Blade drawing golden arcs through the air as it lopped horned helms from armoured shoulders, and split daemons in two. At the same time, blinding light shone from Saint Celestine as she carved her way through the Warpspawn, and Inquisitor Greyfax sent one Traitor after another crashing to their knees as she crushed their minds with her telepathic powers. It did not take Kairos' matchless future-sight to foresee that his enemy would attempt to reach and slay him. The Lord of Change was no match for Guilliman in battle, but armed with his faultless precognition, he had long prepared for this moment. Now, as the Lord of Ultramar smashed his way closer, Kairos set his devious scheme in motion by unleashing a pulse of blue flame from his staff. Nine Heralds of Tzeentch had worked their way through the press of battle, concealed behind shimmering spells of illusion. At Kairos' signal, the leering daemons cast aside their sorcerous shrouds and began a babbling incantation. Bolt shells whipped in towards the Heralds the moment they appeared, but their daemon minions leapt willingly into the path of the shots. Shielded by the shimmering flesh of their underlings, the Heralds continued their chant, nine voices rolling and twining with each other over the cacophony of battle. Raising the Staff of Tomorrow high above his heads, Kairos joined his croaking voices to the burgeoning spell. Since Guilliman had first entered the Maelstrom and begun to hear Kairos whispering in his mind, the Greater Daemon had been planting traps in the Primarch's subconscious. It had not been easy, for Guilliman's mind was a pristine fortress of order and rationality, and his mental defences were formidable. Yet slowly, carefully, the deed had been done. Kairos had teased forth Guilliman's guilt, his anger and disappointment at what remained of the Imperium, his fears for its future. The daemon had intended to continue his work until the Primarch was quite mad before attempting this ritual, but the intervention of the interfering Eldar had forced Kairos' hand. His preparations would have to be enough, or else Guilliman would surely banish him back to the Warp and escape. Swaying and gibbering, spinning and leaping, the daemons worked their spell and dragged forth the incantations laced within Guilliman's mind. The Primarch stumbled, bellowing in pain as streamers of incandescent energy poured from his eyes and open mouth. Squirming tendrils of green, psychic guilt twined around serpentine streamers of disgust and surging red tendrils of anger. Engulfed by the whirling storm of psychic energies, Guilliman tried again to forge a path forward, but with a howl of pain he went down on one knee. Greyfax, bogged down in the morass of combat, could only watch helplessly, while Celestine's attempt to fly to the Primarch's aid was thwarted as several daemons latched onto her wings. Sicarius and his Battle-Brothers, crying out in impotent fury, tried to cut their way through the foe, hoping to stop the incantation in any way they could. The 2nd Company Captain ordered all fire concentrated upon the daemons tormenting the Primarch. It did no good. Those shots aimed at Kairos puffed away as clouds of glittering dust, while the Heralds remained shielded behind squirming bulwarks of daemonic flesh. Though the outnumbered Ultramarines fought furiously, they could not reach the daemonic sorcerers to stop their ritual. Roaring his anger, Guilliman surged to his feet once more, hammering off a volley of shells that struck Kairos Fateweaver and ripped bloody chunks from his gaunt torso. Though the daemon was wounded sorely by the explosive impacts, his chant did not stop. Instead, it redoubled in intensity, the daemon's voices ringing out cruel and cold. Whirling and lashing, the coloured streamers of ectoplasmic energy surged from the Primarch's mind. All of Guilliman's negative emotions, all of the threads of madness and wrath and fear that Kairos had seeded into his mind, blossomed forth and wrapped themselves like vines around the Primarch. They thickened and twisted, pulsing with power as they hardened into heavy crystal chains. Arms and legs bound tight, Guilliman crashed to his knees once more. This time, held firmly by Kairos' spell, he was unable to rise. The Oracle, projecting his voices to every warrior upon the bridge, commanded the Ultramarines, the Living Saint and the Inquisitor to lay down their arms at once. If they did not, the Primarch would be crushed and throttled to death before their eyes. One by one, the guns fell silent as the horrified Ultramarines complied. The battle was over, and Kairos Fateweaver stood gloating and victorious. Resurrección del Imperio Dioses en guerra With Guilliman's capture, the battle of the starship graveyard was lost. Those Imperial warriors who did not surrender under threat of the Primarch's death were killed, or forced to capitulate. Champion Marius Amalrich was amongst the latter, wrestled down and beaten unconscious by a mob of Red Corsairs as he single-handedly held the breach into his ship's enginarium. The Loyalists and their stolen warships were taken under heavy guard to the nearest Red Corsairs stronghold. To their shock, this turned out to be one of the ancient Blackstone Fortresses. How such a mighty structure had found its way onto the tides of the Maelstrom, none of the Imperial warriors knew. Ultimately it mattered little. Stripped of their weapons and their honour, Guilliman and his surviving followers -- a force that included hundreds of Space Marines, Grey Knights and Skitarii, along with their engines of war -- were dragged into the depths of the Traitor fortress and hurled into psychic spell-shielded cells. The Adeptus Astartes were chained with adamantium links, while their leader still languished in the awful bonds of crystallised guilt, anger, sorrow and madness that Kairos had forged from his psyche. Led by the piratical Chaos Lord Verngar the Apostate, a huge warband of Red Corsairs garrisoned the Blackstone Fortress. Much of the structure slumbered, for the Traitors lacked the knowledge to awaken the ancient alien construct or access the shrouded regions near its heart. Still, their fortifications were well-built, their numbers huge and their fleet powerful. Kairos Fateweaver deemed that this would be as good a prison as any to leave Roboute Guilliman in to rot. Though the Lord of Change had been vehement in his efforts to remove Guilliman from the galactic stage, he did not wish the Primarch dead. A chained demigod was too rich a source of power to simply cast aside, and Kairos planned to keep his victim hidden away in the Maelstrom until certain future junctures were reached. Already, the daemon could see several moments where unleashing a Primarch driven insane might produce most intriguing results. The Red Corsairs, for their part, would readily act as Guilliman's gaolers in return for the boons of foresight that Kairos could grant, and so the Fateweaver felt confident that his captive would remain locked away. Perhaps it was the mysterious influence of the fortress itself; perhaps Guilliman's anomalous presence within the strands of fate distorted them in ways that even the Fateweaver could not perceive. Whatever the case, as he made preparations to leave the Blackstone Fortress, the daemon did not foresee the vast horde descending upon him. From the depths of the Maelstrom came an enormous armada. Dozens upon dozens of warships thundered toward the Blackstone Fortress, their hulls encrusted with gore and skulls. The rune of Khorne was branded upon these spiked Battleships, and daemonic fires danced in their wake. Before the fleet blazed a monstrous, blood-red comet wreathed in furious black flame. A fanged maw yawned wide upon that hurtling fireball, and eyes swimming with insane fury stared from its depths. So came Skarbrand the Exiled One to the Blackstone Fortress, blazing through the void to crash with explosive force into the station's outer hull. Khornate warships sped in his wake, fanning out to hammer the battle station with firepower even as teeming swarms of landing craft spilled from their flanks. The Red Corsairs, first surprised and then outraged at this sudden attack, rallied swiftly and fought back. Even as their fortifications were opened to the void and blasted to blazing scrap, the Corsairs' gun batteries cycled up and filled the void with fire. Havoc squads sent volleys of shots lancing out to blast landing craft from the air, while Obliterators directed withering fire into the Khornate hordes already spilling across the fortress' outer hull. A furious battle raged in the silence of space, thumping explosions plucking Khorne Berzerkers from the fortress' night-black skin and sending them tumbling away into the void. Within the Blackstone, flashes of pale green luminescence danced along darkened corridors, the ancient structure warning its denizens of danger. Red Corsairs deployed in disciplined firing lines, then filled entire passageways with crashing Bolter fire as masses of Khornate warriors charged towards them. Chainaxes carved through armour and flesh, while bolt-riddled corpses crashed to the ground aflame. Through the mayhem stalked Kairos, screeching with dismay at this unforeseen turn of events. Conjuring forth masses of Tzeentchian daemons, he hurled them into battle in an attempt to drive back the invaders. Yet bloody mists were gathering as the slaughter continued, and from their depths sprang red-scaled cohorts of Khornate daemons that eagerly joined the carnage. Meanwhile, deep within the Blackstone Fortress, Guilliman listened to the distant clangour, and gathered his strength in case a chance to escape should arise. Alianzas extrañas Furious battle spread like wildfire through the outer corridors and Imperial structures of the Blackstone Fortress. Meanwhile, deep within the fortress' hidden core, eldritch energies flickered into life. Unseen by the warring armies, a band of figures slipped from a Webway portal that had lain at the fortress' heart since the dawn of its existence millions of Terran years before. They moved swiftly and silently, a lithe procession of shadows accompanied by a larger, robed figure that moved with the stealth of a ghost. Guilliman and his Ultramarines were shut inside cells that lined the circular walls of a huge, cylindrical chamber. These alcoves were closed off not by metal bars or locked doors, but by flickering sheets of sorcerous, mutagenic flame. A full squad of Red Corsairs stood guard over them, their guns trained unwaveringly upon the one functional doorway that led into this shadowy prison. Unseen, another doorway slid open in the chamber's curving wall, directly behind the guards. In absolute silence, the Harlequins of the Laughing God rolled, tumbled and span from within, their movements a sinister dance to some unheard song of the dead. They drew closer to the Renegade Space Marines with every graceful step, naked blades held ready for murder. The first the Red Corsairs knew of their peril was a sudden, whirlwind attack from behind. Perfectly dispersed and lethally poised, the Eldar struck with murderous grace. Rapier blades punched out through chest plates in sprays of blood. Monoflament needles slithered through the chinks in their victims' Power Armour, liquefying organs in Terran milliseconds. Point-blank hails of shuriken and fusion energies hurled Traitor corpses to the floor in mists of blood. A single one of the Traitors -- unhelmed and horn-headed -- roared in pain as a Harlequin drove her blade through one of his knee joints, then cart wheeled around him to kick his Bolter from his hands. She completed her attack with an elegant back flip, one foot catching the Traitor under the chin and smashing him onto his back. The Harlequin sprang away, and the Red Corsair fumbled for his side arm. He froze as a robed figure in ornate Power Armour loomed over him. The Traitor had never heard of Cypher, for the Fallen Angel was an enigma whose existence was hidden from most. He did, however, recognise the threat of the two heavy pistols now hovering before his face. Wordlessly, Cypher stared down at the Red Corsair, his eyes glinting beneath his cowl. The Traitor stared back, yellowed gaze burning with defiance and hate. Cypher gestured with one of his pistols towards the cells that lined the walls. The movement was minimal, but the meaning clear. Growling low in his throat, the Corsair reached slowly into a pouch at his belt and drew forth a rune-inscribed amulet. The key to dispelling the psychic magics that held the cells closed. Cypher nodded his gratitude, then raised one booted foot and stamped down on the Traitor's head. Bone smashed and blood sprayed, the Red Corsair's body twitching then lying still. Holstering his Bolt Pistol, the Fallen Angel plucked the key from his victim's open gauntlet, and then straightened up. He found himself staring into the shifting mask of the Shadowseer, Sylandri Veilwalker. She who had contacted Guilliman as he wandered lost in the Maelstrom. She who had enlisted Cypher's aid, and instructed Belisarius Cawl to leave his forge on Mars. Veilwalker sketched a mocking bow to Cypher, then pointed her staff towards a distant cell. With a nod, Cypher turned and strode towards it. Through dancing flames, Guilliman watched the robed figure approach.The Primarch did not recognise this cowled Space Marine, but he knew the Legion whose colours he wore. "You are Roboute Guilliman", said the mysterious Space Marine as he stopped outside the Primarch's cell. "And you are one of the Lion's sons", replied Guilliman. "You keep questionable company, Dark Angel. Who are you, and why are you here?" "I can free you," replied the hooded figure, deigning not to answer the Primarch's questions. Realising that no further explanation was forthcoming, Guilliman frowned. "Can", he rumbled. "Not will. What do you want in return?" "You will take me to Terra", replied the Dark Angel. "To the Throne." The malefic flames crackled and the distant sounds of battle rumbled on as Guilliman's silence stretched long. Even bound in sorcerous chains, the Primarch's presence was immense, his steady glare thunderous. Yet the Dark Angel stood unwavering, like a statue carved from granite. Guilliman strained once more against his bonds, and again found them unyielding. "It seems that my choices are to rot here, or accede to your demand", said the Primarch slowly. "The former would be to fail in my duty, so I suppose it will have to be the latter. But understand this, Dark Angel. If you seek to trick or manipulate me, nothing in this galaxy will save you." One corner of the stranger's mouth lifted into a small, bitter smile. "As you say", he muttered, then brandished the runic stone held in his off-hand. The flames of Guilliman's cell died away in response, followed by the fires of every other cell around the chamber's edge. Guerra de demonios As the fires flickered out, Sylandri Veilwalker stepped forward and began a weaving, elaborate dance. Guilliman's eyes widened as he recognised the figure who had appeared to him in his vision, and directed him towards freedom. Had the Eldar meant for him to escape the Maelstrom, or had she always intended the Terran Crusade fleet to be ambushed and brought here? Such questions would have to wait, realised the Primarch as the Shadowseer's psychic magics went to work. Shimmering lights coiled around the dancing Harlequin. Where the witch-light fell, the chains binding the Loyalist Space Marines fell away as dust. Even the devious sorceries of Kairos Fateweaver were undone, and Guilliman smiled a dangerous smile as his crystal fetters shattered. The freed Ultramarines still wore their armour, but were unarmed. Answering their questions before they could be asked, the Shadowseer revealed that the Loyalists' weapons, their vehicles and their allies had been locked inside a string of stasis vaults some distance from their cells, but that she could lead them there. Guilliman gestured for his mysterious benefactor to lead on. The Primarch did not trust the Eldar, nor the shadowy Space Marine who had come with them, but while his brilliant mind worked out the angles of their involvement, he would allow them to lead him to the rest of his forces. After all, Guilliman would never abandon his father's sword within this den of snakes, nor the courageous allies who had accompanied him upon his quest. Veilwalker and her Harlequins led the Loyalists out of the doorway through which she had entered the prison. Several hundred battle-hungry Ultramarines followed her lead, with Guilliman, Cato Sicarius and Cypher at their head. It was a capable force, even without guns and blades, and they travelled at a run down shadowed corridors and stairwells. Haste was more important than stealth; even with the battle raging above, their escape would soon be noticed. The first stasis chamber they broke open contained Saint Celestine and her Geminae Superia. The second brought a reunion with Archmagos Belisarius Cawl and his Mechanicus forces. With Dunecrawlers stalking at their backs and ranks of Skitarii and Kataphron Battle Servitors lending their firepower, the Loyalists swiftly overwhelmed the Red Corsairs standing guard over the final stasis chamber. Within, they found not only Aldrik Voldus, his Grey Knight brothers and their Dreadknights, but all the other Space Marines of the Terran Crusade, as well as the dozens of tanks and Dreadnought brothers they had brought with them in their warships. Captain Sicarius now suggested that they cut a swift path through the battle to reclaim their starships. Veilwalker shook her head. Thousands of Heretic Astartes and daemons battled across the fortress. Fighting around the docking spars was thick. Any attempt to recover the Terran Crusade's voidcraft was doomed. The Loyalists still might have attempted to recapture their fleet, until the Shadowseer told them that the human crews who had kept the starships operational were all dead, sacrifced alongside the Crusade's Imperial Guardsmen and Battle-Sisters. Worse, the fleet's Navigators had been spirited away in chains upon a fast voidship, bound for Huron Blackheart's personal fortress. Fortunately, Veilwalker knew another way to escape -- the route Cypher and the Harlequins of the Masque of the Veiled Path had used to reach Guilliman, and the route they would use to lead him on towards Terra. At the fortress' heart, trammelled by ancient technology and still operational after many standard millennia, was a stabilised route into the Webway. The pathways it led into were huge, arterial routes that even starships could navigate -- they would accommodate the Imperial war machines with ease. Bursting from the armoury, the Imperial army and their guides made for the lower tunnels. The awakening of the fortress' deeper chambers had not gone unnoticed, however. As they hastened further into the ancient structure, the Loyalists encountered stiffening resistance from bands of Red Corsairs and Daemons sent to cut them off. of the Legion of the Damned come to the aid of the beleaguered forces of the Terran Crusade]] Though Guilliman and his followers fought furiously, their advance slowed to a crawl. Pushing through a vast chamber of twisting bridges and black chasms, they found themselves surrounded on every side. Matters looked grim, but it was in that moment that spectral flames leapt amidst the foe. Auspex readings flickered wildly, and ghostly voices whispered and hissed through the Vox networks as shadowy figures stepped from the inferno and opened fire. Clad in black and bone, wreathed in aetheric fire, the Legion of the Damned had arrived in the Terran Crusade's hour of need. Their thunderous volleys swept the Chaos forces from the bridges to Guilliman's fore, and, with Veilwalker whirling and leaping at his side, the Primarch led the advance once again. Long, bloody solar minutes of battle followed, gunfire flashing back and forth in the gloom. Though both sides raced as fast as they could to beat the other to the prize, Guilliman and his army reached the heart of the Blackstone Fortress at the same time as their foes. The chamber itself was vast, easily a hundred Terran miles across. Both its ceiling and its floor were lost in shadow. Entrancing patterns of shimmering lights crawled across the walls, and flickered up and down the titanic black column that rose at the chamber's heart. Out from that column, like the distorted branches of some dark arboreal deity, radiated hundreds of bridges, stairways, platforms and gantries, all shimmering with the same, vaguely bioluminescent lights that danced across the walls. Countless dark doorways opened onto the Blackstone Fortress' heart, huge portals that seemed wrought for giants. From some spilled daemons of Tzeentch, fires flaring amidst the darkness. Others vomited the daemons of Khorne, loping in snarling packs across soaring bridges wide enough for Titans to cross. Many of the massing daemons were still distant, small figures rendered insectile by the scale of the chamber, but great hosts of them would still intercept Guilliman's forces before they could reach the heart of the chamber. That was where they must go, however -- Veilwalker indicated a distant platform set into the black column's flank. Upon it, Guilliman could see the faint shimmer of esoteric energies dancing, and knew that this was the Webway entrance of which the Shadowseer spoke. Guilliman ordered the advance. His forces flowed out across the nearest bridges, guided through the labyrinth of interconnected platforms and arc-bridges by the Troupes of the Veiled Path. Loping Dreadknights and roaring Space Marine tanks led the way, squads of Adeptus Astartes, Grey Knights and Skitarii advancing behind them. The crossing became more dangerous as firepower whipped across the yawning gulfs to tear at the Loyalist ranks. Fights broke out as Red Corsairs let fly from higher walkways and Cannons of Khorne spat screaming skulls. Platforms as broad as parade grounds played host to crashing battles as packs of Daemon Engines clashed with squadrons of Ultramarine main battle tanks. The Loyalists fired as they moved, blasting paths through the massing foe. At the same time, the forces of Khorne and Tzeentch fell upon one another, Bloodletters hacking their way down ichor-slick stairways while Horrors scoured platforms clear with shimmering flame. Far away across the chamber, Guilliman caught sight of Kairos Fateweaver, exhorting his followers into battle and hurling bolts of psychic sorcery at the Loyalists from afar. Yet the Lord of Change clearly did not care to face Guilliman's resurgent wrath, for he stayed far removed from the white heat of the battle. Not so Skarbrand. Hacking his way through a gaping portal in the chamber's wall, the Bloodthirster blazed like a furious pyre. His bellows echoed through the cavernous space, primal roars of bloodlust that infected the minds of all who heard them. Under Skarbrand's influence, Guilliman's Battle-Brothers became more reckless and aggressive by the moment. Contaminated by the daemon's psychic fury, Marius Amalrich and the last of the Black Templars turned aside from their route and hurled themselves into an onrushing mass of Khornate daemons. Blood sprayed as a savage melee broke out. For a moment the Primarch considered diverting his own forces to help Amalrich's, but with Skarbrand storming closer and daemons swarming on every front, there was no time. With a heavy heart, Guilliman barked orders through the Vox, steadying the Ultramarines and their Primogenitor allies with the sheer force of his will. Bellowing, Amalrich hurled himself into battle with mighty Skarbrand, his Black Sword clashing with the Bloodthirster's twin axes again and again. With Voldus and his Dreadknights leading, and the relentless spectres of the Legion of the Damned fighting a silent rearguard, the remains of the Terran Crusade closed on the Webway entrance. Belisarius Cawl and his Skitarii mowed down rank after rank of daemons. Novamarine Vindicators blasted a trio of bridges that the enemy were using in an attempt to outflank, sending flailing Horrors plunging into the void. Inquisitor Greyfax and Saint Celestine fought side by side, hacking down a trio of Tzeentchian Heralds in as many solar minutes. The Harlequins were everywhere at once, sprinting along walkways, bounding between bridges, hacking and slashing with breathtaking skill as they wove a dance of battle around the Loyalists. That was when Skarbrand gave a deafening bellow of fury and took a running leap. The cursed Bloodthirster sailed across the gulf, trailing boiling ichor from a terrible wound in his chest. Guilliman's eyes widened as he saw Amalrich's black blade, driven into the Bloodthirster's breast. It was the only remaining sign of the Emperor's Champion, bloody atonement for his failings on lost Cadia. Skarbrand landed with a tremendous crash, hooves striking sparks as he slammed down on the bridge amidst the Legion of the Damned. His axes, Slaughter and Carnage, swept left and right. Fire-wreathed spectres were smashed aside, their broken bodies tumbling away like embers into the darkness below. Already the rearmost warriors of Guilliman's force were turning back, tanks and Battle-Brothers alike lost to the Bloodthirster's madness. Realising control was about to slip from his grasp, Guilliman commanded all the remaining Imperials to make for the portal. A final bridge leapt out across the void to connect the platform on which Guilliman stood to the one where the portal flickered. The Primarch took position at the head of that bridge, standing firm with blade drawn as all who could still follow his orders did so. Infantry and vehicles streamed past him, following the Harlequins into the Webway, until only Cato Sicarius and Celestine remained, waiting by the portal's entrance. Skarbrand stormed through the last of the Legion of the Damned and onto the platform. Guilliman felt the structure shudder and flex beneath the Bloodthirster's weight. Then the Greater Daemon's burning eyes found Guilliman's, and the Primarch felt unreasoning fury surge through him. Skarbrand had come for Guilliman's skull, that he might honour Khorne with it, and the daemon did not intend to allow his quarry to escape now. In Guilliman's mind, hellish fires rose up on every side, full of the leering faces of his brothers who had fallen to Chaos. With every step that Skarbrand took towards him, Guilliman's ire grew, while at his back the bridge seemed to melt away as molten slag until there was nothing but the Primarch and the Bloodthirster, trapped together in an arena of roaring flame. Unable to stop himself, the Primarch bellowed a war cry and leapt to meet Skarbrand's charge. The Emperor's Sword met Slaughter with a dolorous clang, while Carnage whistled over the Primarch's head by a hair's breadth. Guilliman drove his shoulder guard into his opponent's midriff, then span on his heel and backfisted Skarbrand with the Hand of Dominion. The blow would have punched straight through a tank hull, yet the Bloodthirster merely rocked back on his heels before launching himself forward again. Hellforged axes hacked and lashed in huge, haymaker arcs, Guilliman barely blocking or evading each blow. The Primarch could feel his hate and rage building to new heights, eclipsing his strategic sense altogether. Dimly he realised that, soon, he would hurl himself at Skarbrand, hacking madly until his head was struck from his shoulders. With a titanic effort of will, Roboute Guilliman forced down the supernaturally-created rage that was drowning his rational mind. Gasping with effort, the Primarch trapped the furious fires in a ring of cold, mental steel. Even as he continued to fight his monstrous foe in reality, he fought a second battle in his mind. Step by step, he pushed back against his blazing rage. With a final scream of mental anguish, Guilliman forced down all his fury and hatred, and locked them away behind impenetrable mental fortifications. As he did so, the fires that he perceived around him died away, and the bridge to safety swam back into focus. Beyond it, Sicarius and Saint Celestine were exhorting him to move before it was too late. Unwilling to let his enemy escape, Skarbrand hurled himself in a wild lunge with axes raised high. Guilliman coolly assessed the threat, raising the Hand of Dominion and blasting the daemon backwards. Skarbrand bellowed in anger as explosive shells tore into his cranium and blew fleshy gobbets across the platform. Step by step, the daemon was driven back, yet still he did not fall. Gritting his teeth at the sight of the enemy drawing close, Guilliman fired the last shells from his magazine, aiming for Amalrich's Black Sword. A single bolt struck the weapon and blew the ebony blade apart in a storm of deadly shards. Skarbrand's torso was shredded, and he toppled backwards off the platform with a final, furious roar. Immediately, Guilliman turned and sprinted across the bridge, hurling himself into the Webway after Captain Sicarius and the Living Saint. Behind him, the portal's warding runes sealed with a sharp crack, denying the surging tide of daemons at the very last second. El laberinto del cazador Space Marines, Grey Knights and the warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus stood amidst the shimmering mists of the Webway. They were gathered in a vague space, its dimensions vast and confusing. Lights glimmered around them, and a distant booming rolled through the air, akin to a titanic heartbeat, or the sound of waves washing upon a rocky shore. Of the Imperial warriors who had escaped their cells, around two-thirds remained alive. Voldus and his Grey Knights had taken only a handful of casualties, and the same was true of the Harlequins. Cypher, too, had survived the desperate running battle through the fortress, and stood now at the head of a band of dark-armoured Space Marines who had clearly awaited his return. As Guilliman's battered warriors regrouped, Sylandri Veilwalker came before the Primarch. She paused for a moment to share a long and loaded look with Archmagos Belisarius Cawl before turning to Guilliman without a word of explanation. She counselled that they could not tarry for long. She had laced this region of the Webway with scout parties of Skyweaver Jetbikes. Those scouts were now reporting back, warning of heavily-armed intruders wearing ornate Power Armour of blue and gold. The warriors had the stench of Chaos sorcery on them, and the unmistakable mark of Tzeentch. Guilliman's mind raced, weaving fragments of fact and glimpses of information with his peerless strategist's intuition. It was Magnus, realised the Primarch. His manipulative brother -- who must have somehow known precisely how matters would play out for Guilliman -- had sent his cursed sons to intercept the Imperials. Events began to fall into place in Guilliman's mind. Magnus had hurled Guilliman's Crusade into the Maelstrom not to destroy it, but to weaken it. He had propelled the Lord of Ultramar onto a particular path of fate that Magnus had either hoped or known would lead him to his capture, incarceration within that very specific gaol, and eventual escape into this section of the Webway. Guilliman could not know that the Crimson King had called upon his greatest champion, Ahriman, to aid him with his stolen knowledge of the Webway's paths, but otherwise the Primarch's conclusions were entirely correct. Swiftly and earnestly, Guilliman sought the counsel of his closest lieutenants. They had to determine what Magnus planned, and quickly, before they stepped straight into the Daemon Primarch's trap. It was Aldrik Voldus who -- drawing upon his knowledge of Titan's ancient libraries -- made the intuitive leap. There was a warded entrance to the Webway within the Imperial Palace. Voldus believed it to be heavily defended, bound shut with the most potent abjurations that the Imperium could muster, but still it existed. Perhaps Magnus knew of that gate, and sought to follow them to it? Guilliman's strategic brilliance leapt ahead again, tracing patterns within patterns and perceiving the truth. Magnus already knew where the gate lay, he realised. There had been whispers that the Crimson King had passed that way before just before the outbreak of the Horus Heresy, and in so doing unleashed the catastrophe that fell upon him and his XV Legion. Magnus did not need them to lead him to the gate. He sought instead to follow them through it, clearly hoping that the gate's defences would be deactivated to allow for Guilliman's arrival. The Daemon Primarch wanted to strike at Terra, at the very Golden Throne of the Emperor of Mankind, and he hoped to launch his attack as the gate was thrown open to permit the Ultramarines Primarch passage. The Terran Crusade, ironically, could not emerge at Terra, Guilliman realised with something like despair, not if it meant allowing Magnus to strike at the cradle of Humanity. Yet Sylandri Veilwalker had never intended for them to take that road. Instead, the Shadowseer revealed a secret that the Eldar had long guarded. Lying dormant for millennia, hidden behind a veil of wards that even Humanity's greatest psykers could not pierce, a lonely spar of the Webway stretched out upon the border between realspace and the Warp to connect to Luna, Terra's only natural moon. It was to that illusion-veiled gate that the Crusade must now make haste. With their path chosen, the survivors of the Terran Crusade set out at once. Already they had crossed great gulfs of space, and fought their way through hellish environs, yet they began this new and arduous leg of their journey without complaint. All who had set forth from Ultramar had been prepared to give their lives for this cause, and to endure any hardship they must in order to see the reborn Roboute Guilliman safely to Terra. Nothing had changed. Travelling fast, the Harlequins of the Veiled Path lead the way. They progressed now through territory that was theirs alone, moving with ever greater speed and confidence as a result. Bands of Harlequins split away into half-glimpsed side passages, or slipped through hollow archways graven from stone. Others returned in similar fashion, filtering in before or behind the massed Imperial tanks and foot troops. Harlequin Jetbikes sped overhead from time to time, hurtling down the wider passageways in polychromatic blurs. All the while, Guilliman and his followers kept up a relentless pace, their tanks moving in the vanguard while loping infantry and stalking Dunecrawlers brought up the rear. The Webway changed and shifted around them, from misty passages to dark and echoing tunnels, brightly lit expanses of polyhedral crystal to weirdly fleshy spirals that pulsed with peristaltic motion. The Loyalists surely would have been lost within solar minutes, had they travelled alone, or else set upon by the predatory entities that haunted the Labyrinth Dimension. Yet with the Harlequins as both guides and escorts, the Imperial forces were able to proceed unchallenged. All that changed when frantic reports reached Sylandri Veilwalker of familiars that had espied the Loyalists and eluded the pursuing Jetbikes. At the Shadowseer's urging, the punishing pace increased still further, until the slowest Servitors were abandoned altogether. As Guilliman and his warriors thundered across a hazy, crystal-studded cavern, sudden volleys of firepower scythed into them from the flanks. Fifteen warriors fell to that first volley, punched off their feet by bolt shells wreathed in coruscating flame. Rhinos exploded amidst leaping blasts of psychic sorcery, while Skitarii degenerated into howling mutant flesh as the fires of change washed over them. Guilliman barked his orders and the Loyalists fanned out as one, dropping into firing crouches amidst the crystal outcroppings. From all around, swimming into focus through the veiling mists, came the plodding automata of Thousand Sons Rubricae. The armoured golems played their Bolters right and left as they advanced, laying down a steady hail of ensorcelled bolts. Hordes of shrieking Tzaangors moved amongst them, brandishing silvered blades. Guilliman's warriors fired back, sending many of their ambushers reeling as their armour was rent and the dust that animated it spilled onto the ground. Cypher span and dove through the mayhem, evading every shot fired his way and reaping a tally of the foe with his blazing pistols. Aldrik Voldus, too, wrought havoc as he led a counterattack against the Thousand Sons. His warhammer swung in lightning fast arcs, battering Rubricae to the ground amid clouds of glittering dust. Still more Rubricae closed in, their sorcerous masters upon their flying discs hurling their spells into the Loyalist ranks. Guilliman realised that to stay here was to fight an impossible battle, and to be lost with his goal in sight. It infuriated the Primarch to run yet again, for it seemed to him that, since leaving Ultramar, he had done little else. Yet the greater goal was of more importance, and he knew that he would not aid his father's Imperium by dying here. Blade raised high, Guilliman led the movement to break out of the Thousand Sons ambush. Not all of his Battle-Brothers could extract themselves from the fight safely, and more precious lives were lost -- along with the gene-seed within them -- as Space Marines were cut down by the enemy's fire. Yet with the winged Living Saint cutting a path at their head, the Loyalists broke away from their attackers and fled deeper into the Webway. They found themselves beset at every turn, Rubricae and braying Tzaangors bursting from side passages or holding junctions against them. Still the Loyalists pressed on, smashing headlong through every ambush and blockade with Guilliman, Voldus, Greyfax, Celestine and Cypher at their head. At last, the Imperials reached a rune-sealed portal, fixing helms and rebreather cowls in place. Then, led by the Shadowseer, they stepped from the Webway and onto the surface of Luna. En medio del mar de tormentas Guilliman stepped through the shimmering lights of the Webway gate, enduring the unsettling doubling of reality that it created. He passed from soft illumination into harsh black shadow and searing glare, from air and gentle warmth into the frozen, airless lethality of near-vacuum. Gravity bled away around him, and with a single step, Guilliman launched himself away from the Webway gate into the billowing moon dust beyond. The Terran Crusade had emerged into a deep crater, much of which was immersed in inky blackness. Shafts of stark illumination fell from above, where the rays of Sol itself spilled over the lip of the deep pit. Conscious of the foes following close on their heels, the Loyalists climbed quickly up the pit's sides. Space Marines sprang upwards hand over fist in the low gravity, only one-sixteenth that of Terra. Tanks threw up drifting fans of moon dust as they powered up the rocky slope. Skitarii marched relentlessly upward, ignoring their blackening and freezing organic components. These latter soldiers would not last long on the lunar surface, but they would endure long enough to serve the Omnissiah's needs. Above them, Celestine soared upward into the dark skies -- her Geminae Superia had donned their helms, but the Living Saint had no need of such apparel. Behind them, Veilwalker and her Harlequins lingered by the Webway gate. The Shadowseer gathered her powers, levelling her staff towards the Webway portal and beginning a whispering chant. The runes upon the structure's flanks glowed fiercely with a searing light. Before Veilwalker could finish her ritual, the gate pulsed with dark energies. Blue fire billowed, its roar sounding as a dull rumble in the airless conditions. Veilwalker span clear at the last moment, but many of her Harlequin followers were not so fortunate. Their lithe bodies were engulfed in flame and, as their ''dathedi'' suits burned away, so their bodies melted like wax or froze and died. From near the lip of the crater, Guilliman looked back to see the corrupted Webway gate glowing with dark fire. Streamers of energy leapt and coiled, dancing across the walls of the pit and blasting the Eldar corpses to ash. Out from that crackling storm stepped the first Rubric Marines, their footfalls muffled as they advanced across the crater floor. They raised their Bolters and opened fire, cursed shells roaring up from below to slam into the Imperials. Armour ruptured and souls burned. Bulky bodies in the colours of the Novamarines and Mortifactors tumbled in slow motion down the slopes, clouds of chalky dust cascading around them. A Dreadknight toppled backwards, its pilot slain. The remaining Loyalists kept moving, over the lip of the crater and out of the Thousand Sons' line of fire. Here, the retreat stopped at last. Guilliman and his surviving followers stood upon the surface of Luna itself, near the heart of the Mare Tempestus. On every side loomed the rusted hulks of old and broken Imperial voidships, a graveyard of junked and decommissioned spacecraft left there to moulder. Overhead, the blackness of space was speckled with stars while closer to hand, huge orbital docks and defence platforms filled the sky. Gothic leviathans swarming with voidcraft and covered in glaring lights, the grandeur of the Luna docks still faded against the breathtaking sight of Terra itself, hanging stark against the blackness above. There was the destination that Guilliman sought, the end of his journey at last. Yet a deadly foe still chased at the Primarch's heels, and could not be allowed to work his malefic will within sight of the Throneworld. Guilliman knew that the Warp phenomena currently erupting in the crater's depths must surely have triggered every alarm and emergency Augur within a dozen terra-sols. It would not be long before overwhelming Imperial forces raced to investigate, but there was no telling what irrevocable havoc Magnus could cause before they arrived. Guilliman saw again the visions Kairos had sent him, of a shattered world crashing down upon a fire-blackened Terra, and shuddered. He and his followers must hold the enemy here, driving the Thousand Sons back or -- at the least -- keeping them suppressed until aid could arrive. The Thousand Sons were spilling from the Webway gate in increasing numbers, Scarab Occult and Rubricae driven forward by Chaos Sorcerers on their flying discs. Their advance was steady but unstoppable, pushing up the crater walls with their guns blazing. Recognising that the crater itself offered the best chance of containing the foe, Guilliman spread his warriors, combat walkers and tanks around its lip and commanded them to pour fire down into the advancing Thousand Sons. Space Marines, Skitarii, Dreadnoughts, Land Raiders, Vindicators, Dunecrawlers, Battle Servitors and more opened fire. Using the lip of the crater for cover, and making the most of the higher ground, the Loyalists sent volley after volley ripping down into the Heretic Astartes. Striding automata were knocked back into the crater by devastating explosions. Glittering dust drifted from rents in ancient, ornate armour, floating free in the low gravity and leaving once-animate undead armour suits to crumple and collapse. Sergeants barked orders through the Vox, coordinating volleys of Lascannon blasts and Demolisher shells to rain down upon the Rubricae. Cypher and his shadowy companions rained fire down upon the Thousand Sons. Greyfax slammed silver stakes through one Rubricae after another from her Condemnor Bolter. Aldrik Voldus tore Traitors apart with the potent powers of his mind. Armoured corpses piled in heaps at the bottom of the crater, surrounding the Webway gate with carrion remains. From cracks and rocky outcroppings around the crater's edge, the last of the Harlequins added their own fire to the fusillade, hails of monofilament discs cutting through Power Armour and the flesh of living, daemonic discs. For a time, it appeared as though the Thousand Sons would be bottled up in the crater. Though their return fire caused slow attrition amongst the Loyalists, the Traitors were losing far more warriors than they slew. Then a fresh pulse of dark power surged through the Webway gate, its energies whirling faster and faster until they formed a flaming vortex. A wave of supernatural dread swept over the loyalist Space Marines as a huge, hornheaded figure stepped through onto the surface of Luna. Spreading his wings wide, Magnus the Red looked up at Guilliman with a mocking smile. Dioses de guerra Drawing himself up to his full height, Magnus the Red raised his ensorcelled glaive and spoke dolorous words of power that rang out in defiance of all natural law. Purple flames leapt, forming shimmering shields and warding the Thousand Sons from harm. Suddenly, the Rubricae and Scarab Occult could advance unharmed, striding upwards as their foes' shots exploded upon Magnus' psychic shields. The Thousand Sons suffered no such obstruction, and dozens of Loyalists were sent tumbling back from the crater's lip, blood and shattered bone spraying. Seeing the sudden shift in the situation, and knowing that they must hold out no matter the cost, Guilliman ordered his surviving warriors back. Moments later, the first ranks of Rubricae crested the lip of the crater and strode out with their gun muzzles flaring. More Thousand Sons marched behind them, and the surviving Loyalists fell back to voidship wrecks and rocky craters to gain cover while their tanks backed steadily away with their guns thundering. Magnus rose from the crater. With a word, the Daemon Primarch unmade a trio of Dreadknights, burning out their psychic wards and crushing their armour. With a gesture, he telekinetically plucked an Ultramarines Land Raider from the ground and slammed it through ranks of Skitarii like a cannonball. Magnus brandished his staff and reality rent apart, a tide of cackling Tzeentchian daemons boiling from the Warp to join the battle. Recognising that the Daemon Primarch would swiftly destroy his army if allowed free reign, Guilliman broke into a headlong charge. Giving vent to a booming war cry, the Primarch of the Ultramarines smashed a path through the Rubricae before him and launched himself into a heroic leap from the lip of the crater. Guilliman soared, burning blade leaving a trail of flame behind him. Magnus saw his brother coming and began an incantation of pain, but before he could finish it the Lord of Ultramar struck. Magnus managed to parry his brother's arcing blade with his glaive, but the battering ram impact of Guilliman's leap carried the Crimson King backward, away from the fight. The two Primarchs tumbled across the lunar surface, dust billowing around them, and smashed into the rusted wreck of an Imperial frigate. Slabs of metal and corroded ironwork crashed down around them, burying the fighting brothers in an avalanche of wreckage. Meanwhile, the battle around the crater raged on, the last remnants of the Terran Crusade fighting furiously to survive. Guilliman fought his way to freedom, hurling aside a slab of rusted metal and ignoring the alarms ringing within his helm. His armour was compromised, its air supply venting and the cold of the void leaking in. Were it not for his god-like constitution, and Cawl's life-sustaining technology, Guilliman would likely have been dead. Instead, he raised his blade and kicked his way clear of the scattered wreckage. "Magnus", he shouted through his Vox grill, searching around him. The Primarch knew his dubiously gifted brother could hear his words, even in the void of space. "I know better than to think you dead. Face me!" Deep laughter rolled around Guilliman, a sound redolent with ancient malice. As he watched, Magnus' ethereal form rose from the wreckage and drifted down to loom over him. The Daemon Primarch solidified once more, huge and menacing. "Very well, Roboute", laughed Magnus, and his words conjured crystalline showers that rained down upon the pale ground. "Here I am, in the flesh. And -- somehow -- there you are." Magnus cocked his head to one side and smirked. "I don't remember you seeming so ... insignifcant." "Ten millennia have made you no less arrogant, then?" asked Guilliman, warily circling his towering foe. Inside his helm, a look of disgust twisted his patrician features as he regarded the monstrous form of the Crimson King. "Certainly those years have done you no other kindness." Magnus sighed. "How you can have such grand plans and yet such scant vision has always eluded me. This", the Daemon Primarch said, empyric energies stirring as they gathered around his levelled glaive, "is what true power looks like." "I see no power here", said Guilliman, shaking his head in dismay. "I see corruption, and enslavement to monsters that are worshipped as gods." "On that, Roboute," Magnus laughed, sparing a glance at the Loyalists fighting nearby, "perhaps we can finally agree." The cyclopean Sorcerer's smile turned into a sneer when he noticed his brother glance to the skies above. "Hoping to keep my sons and I occupied until the remnants of this palsied Imperium come to save you? I may not reach our father's throne room today, but I promise that you won't either. You will be dead long before help arrives. That alone will be worth all this trouble." With that, Magnus attacked. The giant moved far faster than even Guilliman could have believed, his ensorcelled glaive lashing out to split the Lord of Ultramar in two. Guilliman leapt backward, pulling his midriff in as he did so. Magnus' weapon drew sparks from his armour as it whistled past, and Guilliman landed atop the crumpled prow of a nearby frigate. Before he could take stock, Magnus was hurling balls of blue psychic flame at him. Guilliman threw himself out of their path, sliding down the prow's rusted flank and dropping into a crouch at its feet. He broke into a charge, bursting from the drifting cloud of dust raised by his landing and weaving skillfully around his brother's sorcerous projectiles. The ammunition in the Hand of Dominion was spent, but it was still a phenomenally powerful weapon. Sidestepping a downward cut from Magnus' glaive, Guilliman slid inside his brother's guard and delivered a thunderous uppercut. The impact lifted Magnus from his feet and sent him tumbling upward into the inky blackness. Fiery blood drifted in strings from Magnus' shattered jaw, causing kaleidoscopic fungi to sprout from where it spattered on Luna's surface, the power of change embedded even in the Daemon Primarch's blood. Roiling psychic energy wrapped around Magnus, arresting his motion and righting him as he howled in anger. The Daemon Primarch stared hatefully down with his single eye, and Guilliman knew fresh sorrow as he realised how truly mad and lost his sibling had become. "Arrogance", shouted Guilliman. "It was always your undoing, brother. You thought this would be an easy fight, that the gifts of your so-called gods would render me impotent. Perhaps those you serve are not all you believed them to be?" Magnus' rage vanished in an eye-blink, and he laughed scornfully in response to Guilliman's jibe. "You would like to believe that, wouldn't you? That the dutiful Roboute Guilliman was justified in his loyalty? That, now the ramifications of our choices have become clear, you can look down on me as you always did?" With sudden violence, Magnus jabbed downward with his glaive. Multicoloured flames exploded from its blade, engulfing Guilliman and the bedrock upon which he stood. Moon dust exploded upwards in crackling clouds. Fire danced across scrap iron, and Roboute cried out as agony wracked his body. Crackling with raw power, Magnus descended, still pouring Warp fire into his brother. Guilliman screamed again, dropping to one knee as his armour blazed with searing energy. Sparks burst from the overloaded systems of his Power Armour, and the smell of his own, cooking flesh filled his nostrils. Desperate, Guilliman drove himself backwards in a graceless leap. He flew in an arc to smash down amidst a tumbled heap of enginarium debris, armour still flickering with flames. Magnus landed, chuckling cruelly. Sprawled amidst the tangle of wreckage, Guilliman tried to push himself to his feet. The Primarch's body was a mass of pain, and his armour responded sluggishly, a number of its servomotors burned out. "No, brother", said Magnus. "You stay where you are." The Daemon Primarch gestured, and spectral claws tore several hundred tons of machinery loose from a nearby wreck. Guilliman had time to brace himself before the ungainly mass impacted like a comet, burying him completely beneath an avalanche of crushing metal. Guilliman was entombed. Alarms chimed in his ears, red warning signs flashing in his peripheral vision. The pain of lacerated organs and shattered bones dragged at him, and for a moment the Lord of Ultramar was tempted simply to give in. Then he thought again of his long-suffering sons, fighting so hard for the ideals of an Imperium they had never even known. He would not betray them. He would not let one of his degenerate brothers keep him from his responsibilities -- not again. Muscles tensing, strength surging, Guilliman ripped his way up through the tumbled mountain of wreckage. He roared as he hurled aside a capacitor unit the size of a Land Raider, and stepped, bloodied but unbroken, into the hard light of Luna. Magnus arched an eyebrow at the sight, and braced his glaive to hurl another spell. And then the void lit with fire. La ira del emperador Grand Master Aldrik Voldus looked up and gave thanks as the Emperor's deliverance rained down upon the battlefield. The Terran Crusade forces had broken into small islands of resistance, some hunkered down amidst spacecraft wreckage, others crouching behind jutting Luna rocks. The Thousand Sons had surrounded them, relentlessly pouring fire into the Loyalist positions while Tzeentchian daemons hurtled overhead on golden discs to rain Warpflame upon them. Now, though, help had arrived. Gilt-chased fighter craft screamed down over the lunar landscape. As they did so, rippling lines of fire exploded amidst Rubricae and Horrors alike. Las blasts and hails of explosive shells tore the Tzeentchian footsoldiers apart. Bombs fell amongst them, sundering armour and flesh. At the same time, vast leviathans of adamantium and plasteel rumbled in overhead. Naval system monitors of the Imperial Navy's Terran Defence Fleet hove into low orbit, their enormous forms swamping the battlefield in shadow as they came. Aided by triangulatory targeting data transmitted by Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, the voidships rained pinpoint-accurate fire upon the foe. Lunar dust whirled in sudden vortices as teleport energies snatched it up. Bright light flared, and the golden giants of the Adeptus Custodes stepped from it with their Guardian Spears levelled. Hails of bolt fire ripped into the Rubricae. Cursing, the Sorcerers ordered their undead golem warriors to turn and address these new foes, but to no avail. Moving with breathtaking speed and skill, the Custodians hacked their way into the Heretic Astartes. Each fought like a hero born, their blades splitting ancient Power Armour like firewood and sending empty helms spinning lazily away across the lunar surface. Rallying as aid appeared, the last enclaves of those warriors who had set out from Macragge fought back with renewed fury. Aldrik Voldus stepped out from the wreckage of a bulk carrier, leading his remaining Grey Knights and Dreadknights in a valiant charge. His hammer smashed apart ceramite wherever it connected, and psychic lightning danced about him despite the Chaos Sorcerers' best efforts to banish it. Inquisitor Katarinya Greyfax fought alongside him, her iron will bringing Tzeentchian conjurers to their knees before she struck off their heads with her masterwork blade. Seizing the moment, Saint Celestine swept through the enemy ranks, the Ardent Blade slashing left and right as her Geminae Superia raked the daemons with bolt fire. Captain Cato Sicarius followed in her wake, rallying Ultramarines and their Primogenitors behind him as they cut a path towards the Adeptus Custodes. The muffled boom of engines sounded overhead, heralding the arrival of further Imperial forces. Stark yellow Drop Pods slammed down, thrusters flaring. Their hatches opened and squads of Imperial Fists Space Marines emerged from within, Bolters blazing at the enemy. Gunships rumbled overhead, yellow-hulled Stormravens and Stormtalons whose weapons tore through the Thousand Sons. Several were swatted by bolts of sorcery and hails of rotary cannon fire, flames belching from ruptured hulls as they span down to crash amidst the wreckage of starships. Amongst these craft flew a trio of Valkyries with hulls of crimson and black, the sigil of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica emblazoned upon their flanks. Arcing through the explosions and mayhem above the battlefield, the gunships made for the point some way distant where Guilliman still battled his monstrous brother. Purple fire speared upwards, ripping the wing from the leading craft and sending it rolling to a halt in a blazing fireball. The other two swept on towards their quarry, and as they came in low, their side doors slid open. While their brave pilots blitzed fire at Magnus the Red, two squads of helmed Sisters of Silence dropped from the gunships. They landed near Guilliman in fighting crouches. Angrily, Magnus swept his clawed hand through the air, dragging one gunship sideways with telekinetic power and smashing it into the other. Both Valkyries exploded and tumbled downwards, but the Sisters of Silence leapt nimbly aside. Magnus glowered, jabbing with his glaive and sending tendrils of green and yellow psychic flame spiralling in their direction. The sorcery sputtered and died before it reached them, undone by the empyric dead zone around the warrior Nulls. Seeing a strategic advantage at last, Guilliman leapt down from the mound of wreckage and landed amidst the Sisters of Silence. They would shield him from his brother's fell powers. Together, the Primarch and the Sisters charged towards Magnus with their blades at the ready. The Daemon Primarch hurled another volley of psychic destruction, growling in frustration as it flickered out like the first. Angrily, Magnus hefted his glaive and swooped forward to meet his enemies at close quarters. If he could not destroy them with the powers of the Warp, he would hack and crush their mortal bodies until nothing remained but meat. Beneath the dark lunar sky, with Terra hanging, ancient and hallowed above them, the two Primarchs crashed together once again. Syndri Veilwalker bounded into the air. She drove one foot into the side of a Rubricae's helm, ripping it free with the force of her kick. The Shadowseer pushed off from her first victim, spinning through the thin air to hurl a bewildering glamour into the face of a nearby Sorcerer. The Tzeentch worshipper howled in panic, clawing at his helm and ripping it free. His flesh froze in solar seconds, his eyes bursting as bloody puffs and gore squirted from his nose, mouth and ears. The Shadowseer trilled a mocking laugh as she landed, spinning her stave low to sweep the legs from two more Rubricae, before sketching an elaborate bow to their fellows. Amidst a hail of ensorcelled bolts, Veilwalker sprang away, as her kin cartwheeled into the enemy's midst from another direction. In such low gravity conditions, the Harlequins could achieve feats of agility and grace beyond even their normal blinding skill, and Veilwalker laughed again as she saw the Rubricae rendered clumsy by comparison. Bounding in a high pirouette over the battle, Veilwalker sought he who wore the Armour of Fate. There he was, amidst the wrecks of crude human spacecraft, battling his monstrous brother alongside a band of warriors. Even from here, the mere presence of the psychic Nulls made Sylandri shudder. Guilliman and Magnus were trading hate-filled blows, their weapons crashing together with titanic force. The Nulls were doing what they could to aid the fight, stabbing blades at the daemon in their midst or pouring Bolter fire into him. Already, several lay as broken corpses for their troubles, but the rest were doing an effective job of deadening Magnus' sorcerous powers. Veilwalker landed gracefully, ignoring a storm of magical flames that exploded away to her left. Daemons, befuddled by her Domino Field, cast their spells at where they believed her to be. With a thought, Veilwalker activated the communications inlay in her helm, communing with her Death Jester, the Hollow Prince. "The moment has arrived", she said. "Our drama has played out, and the brothers' enmity burns anew." "Now the final curtain, then?" whispered the voice of the Hollow Prince, rich with wicked mirth. "Indignation. Outrage. Vendetta." "It must be thus", agreed Veilwalker. "I shall ready the gate, for truth this time. You deliver your lines, and let matters play out." Without waiting for an answer, Veilwalker cut her communications. She sprinted for the crater from which they had all emerged. She wove and sprang, dodged and tumbled through the raging battle, finally throwing herself into a feet-first slide over the crater's lip. Veilwalker arced gracefully down, moon dust falling about her like snow, and landed in a crouch amid the mounds of armoured corpses. Across the crater floor, the darkness was lit by the whirling storm of purple light that spat from the corrupted Webway gate. Magnus had done that, cursing the portal to permit his unnatural passage. Veilwalker smirked coldly behind her mask; he would pay for that hubris. Across the field of battle, she knew that the Hollow Prince would be communicating with Guilliman, explaining their plan to the Primarch. The Death Jester would be telling the Primarch that Magnus could be destroyed only by casting his body into the corrupted Webway gate. If Veilwalker's visions were correct, Guilliman would believe him. Meanwhile, she had to prepare the gateway, which was currently guarded by a pair of Chaos Sorcerers. Ghosting closer through the bodies with illusions flickering about her, Veilwalker drew her Shuriken Pistol. A gentle squeeze of its trigger, a flick of her wrist, and several more gentle depressions; first one Sorcerer and then the other staggered as rounds struck them, perfectly placed to puncture their gorget seals and open their jugular arteries. The two Sorcerers crumpled, and Veilwalker hurriedly began her incantations. The energies around the Webway gateway pulsed and shuddered, the runes on its sides glowing brighter as a keening vibration shook the dark pit. At that moment, battling demigods appeared upon the crater's edge. Guilliman and Magnus, both bleeding from the wounds they had dealt one another, still flanked by a last handful of the Null warriors. Magnus bisected another of the women with a brutal swing of his glaive, which lashed around to hack a chunk from Guilliman's breastplate. In return, the Lord of Ultramar drove Magnus back with hammer blows from the Emperor's blade, then slammed his shoulder into his brother's chest and sent the Crimson King crashing down the steep slope. Guilliman leapt after him, not giving Magnus a chance to recover. The Primarch's onslaught was punishing, the wounded Guilliman visibly pouring everything he had into this last storm of blows. Veilwalker melted away into the shadows as the warring brothers neared the Webway gate, still muttering her incantations and weaving her staff back and forth. Magnus conjured a deadly sphere of Warp energies and hurled it at his brother with all his might. Guilliman's Iron Halo absorbed the worst of the blast, but still he was sent staggering back. With his back to the gate, the Primarch of the Thousand Sons conjured a wave of telekinetic fury and used it to fling a mass of Space Marine corpses -- Loyalist and Traitor alike -- at the last few Nulls. They vanished from Sylandri's sight, their contra-empyric drag blinking out as they were buried beneath a macabre heap of the dead. The Shadowseer started forward, fearing for the fate of the Final Act. Then, with a roar of hate and rage, Guilliman struck. The Lord of Ultramar lunged at his brother. The burning blade drove in, under the Daemon Primarch's guard, and sank deep into his chest. Golden flames leapt, and Magnus howled in agony as they chewed hungrily at his flesh. He unleashed his powers in an uncontrolled sorcerous blast, its shock wave racing out across the crater and throwing Sylandri from her feet. The burst of power hurled Guilliman onto his back, blade in hand, and sent Magnus staggering free, back through the pulsating Webway gate. Sylandri had one chance, a single moment in which to alter fate. With a final word, she shattered the runestone that glowed hot in her palm, and severed the Webway gate to Luna forever. Power surged, Magnus roared his fury, and then was cut off from Luna, his warriors and his brother, banished to the depths of the Labyrinth Dimension. Polvo a Polvo Guilliman staggered to his feet, limping and wounded underneath his smouldering and blackened armour. The Webway gate rose before him, and no trace of his brother remained. Had Magnus been destroyed? Guilliman hoped so, but he did not believe it. The Harlequins' sudden plan for victory had been too convenient, the disappearance of Magnus too abrupt. The Primarch cast about for Sylandri Veilwalker, but found that she too had disappeared. A swiftly voxed question to his warriors revealed that the remainder of the Masque of the Veiled Path had vanished with her, though none could say how. If it had all been a trick, Guilliman could not fathom its intent, but for now at least, Magnus was gone. Listening to the voxed reports of his lieutenants, Guilliman realised that the battle was as good as won. Even while fighting his brother, Guilliman had kept a portion of his mind upon the wider strategic picture. It took him only moments to piece together the battle's events. Bolstered by the sudden arrival of the Adeptus Custodes and the Imperial Fists, the Terran Crusade had driven the Thousand Sons back. Tzeentchian automata lay scattered across this region of the Mare Tempestus, little more than vacant suits of ornate armour tangled amidst the wreckage. The daemons that Magnus had summoned were gone also, banished along with their master. With orbital barrages and hurtling fighter craft annihilating any Traitors who attempted to break for freedom, the last of the Sorcerers had gathered their Rubricae and their Scarab Occults, and were driving -- steady and relentless -- for the crater's edge. They had sensed the banishment of their lord, but they did not know that the Webway gate had been severed. The last of the Traitors were making a bid to escape, and Guilliman stood directly in their path. Wearily, the Primarch squared his shoulders and shrugged off his hurts. Walking with a limp, armour sparking and dented, Roboute Guilliman made for the crater's edge. His helm's Auspex showed him the route of the incoming Traitors, and the Imperial forces harassing their flanks. Though badly mauled, the Thousand Sons still had numbers, and had broken through the last, faltering ranks of Belisarius Cawl's Skitarii. Guilliman strode up the crater wall to meet them, and as he did so the mountain of corpses behind him stirred and shifted. Heaving themselves to freedom, three tenacious Sisters of Silence escaped their gruesome cairn and hasted to stand at Guilliman's side. The remaining Thousand Sons were several hundred Terran yards from the crater's edge, marching relentlessly in Guilliman's direction. They travelled in a loosely circular formation, the Rubricae facing outward in a ceramite ring and moving in eerily perfect lockstep. Loyalist forces surrounded them, squads of infantry and scorched battle tanks pouring fire into the retreating Traitors. More Rubricae fell by the moment, but with their Sorcerers safe at the heart of the formation, the Thousand Sons' momentum was hard to stop. They would come no further, resolved Guilliman. Voxing orders to every Imperial warrior, the Primarch instructed his followers to charge the Thousand Sons from every side, and all remaining vehicles to provide supporting fire, Guilliman brandished his flaming blade and swept into battle. The last of the Sisters of Silence ran at his side, their Bolters thumping. The Imperial forces closed upon the Traitors like a clenching fist. The muffled thunder of gunfire carried across the Mare Tempestus as a devastating storm of shots engulfed the Thousand Sons. At the same time, Aldrik Voldus, Cypher, Greyfax, Belisarius Cawl and Saint Celestine charged into the enemy's midst with their guns blazing and warriors at their backs. Thunder Hammers swung, connecting with tectonic force. Power Swords slid through armour like knives through silk. Sorcery transformed noble warriors to crystal statues, or collapsing heaps of mutated flesh. Through the mayhem waded Roboute Guilliman, hacking and bludgeoning his way towards the Sorcerers at the heart of the enemy formation. Enough loyal blood had been shed. Enough brave warriors had been slain, and more besides, to bring Guilliman within striking distance of the Throneworld. The losses ended now, and Ultramarines Primarch would be the one to end them. The first Sorcerer he met was backhanded from his disc, tumbling away like a ragdoll. The next two fell to lethal sword thrusts, their blood puffing out into the void slow clouds. Three more turned their powers upon the Primarch, only to find hexes faltering and hellfires flickering to nothing as the Sisters of Silence joined the fray. One Sorcerer succeeded in driving his sword through Guilliman's pauldron and drawing the Primarch's blood. Another cracked one eye lens of his helm with a desperate thrust of his stave. No other harm did the Sorcerers cause to the Lord of Ultramar, who passed through them like a storm of death and left all as drifting corpses. At last the battle was done. The final Rubricae, leaderless and without direction, were cut swiftly to pieces. The whirling storm of moon dust settled as the battle's fury abated. With his loyal warriors kneeling around him and his foes destroyed, Guilliman allowed himself to lean for a moment upon his blade, and to feel the pain of both body and soul. Mundo del trono ]] After the Battle of Luna, matters moved swiftly. Fresh waves of craft descended to scour away the Traitor corpses that littered the region. Inquisitorial agents and teams of Mechanicus Magi Xenotechnologis swarmed the battlefield, the former seeing to matters of containment and secrecy while the latter fell upon the deactivated Webway gate like vultures. Guilliman ignored them all. He allowed the senior Apothecary amongst the Imperial Fists to tend to his most immediate hurts, and then insisted that he and his companions be allowed to press on. None was foolish enough to gainsay a living Primarch -- indeed, few save the Custodes could stop staring in wonderment long enough to communicate with him -- and so Guilliman's demands were soon met. Down from on high came an enormous lander of remarkable design. Glimmering gold in the harsh light of Sol, the craft resembled the two-headed Imperial Aquila writ large. Gouts of flame leapt from its wings, slowing its descent, and it landed on heavy, taloned struts just beyond the field of battle. More warriors of the Adeptus Custodes strode down the ship's boarding ramp, joining with their battle-scarred comrades and lining the route on board. Guilliman and his surviving warriors passed between them with their heads held high, Space Marines, Grey Knights, and the once-leaders of the Celestinian Crusade marching into the capacious hold of the Aquila craft. Only once the ramp had whined shut behind them, and oxygen flowed back into the chamber, did the Custodes remove their helms and bow low to Guilliman. As the craft shuddered and lifted off, the Shield-Captain who led them introduced himself as Ty Adronitus, and explained that Guilliman and his warriors would be borne to Terra with all haste. They were to put down at the Eternity Wall spaceport, and from there would travel as part of a triumphant parade to the Imperial Palace. The High Lords of Terra had anticipated the Primarch's desire to stand before the Golden Throne, explained Shield-Captain Adronitus. They would do everything they could to facilitate it, and to fete the living Primarch's return to the Throneworld. Guilliman approved the arrangements that had been made for him. Though they would have fought on stubbornly until their dying breaths if the situation had demanded it, Guilliman and his warriors were wearied by the constant hardships they had endured since setting out from Macragge. Thus, as the Aquila craft swept up from Luna's surface and away towards Terra, Guilliman and his comrades settled back in flight thrones and simply watched the external picters. Many reflected upon the astronomical losses the Terran Crusade had taken to get the Primarch here, but none could be altogether distracted from the breathtaking sights that slid past. As the ship rose up away from Luna, the orbital docks and shipyards of the Moon spread out in all their industrial grandeur. Hundreds of voidships, thousands of forges, weapons platforms, grav habs and docking spindles sprawled through the void above the Moon's chalky white surface, while swathes of the Moon itself were carpeted in macrohives and sprawling junk yards like the one the Terran Crusade had so recently fought amidst. Further out, the void teemed with spacecraft and defences of every sort. Dense minefields filled hundreds of Terran miles of space, every charge crafted to resemble a brushed steel skull. Vast battle stations and deep space weapons platforms hung menacingly, each one a gun-studded cathedrum the size of a city. Immense spacecraft of the Adeptus Ministorum plied the darkness, penitence arks and solar reliquaries dozens of Terran miles long; within those cold, dark halls, the faithful wailed prayers and self-flagellated for the Emperor's glory. System monitors prowled the heavens in vast numbers, swarming like stinging insects around their hive. All were eclipsed in size by the immense, mobile star fort that hung halfway between Terra and Luna, engulfed in repair cradles and servo-armatures. The Imperial Fists' mobile base of operations, the star fort Phalanx, undergoing much-needed repairs, had returned from the Cadia System to watch over the Throneworld like an eagle over its nest. Far distant, further out towards the Sol System's edge, could be seen the angry red glint of Mars and its attendant orbital platforms, the so-called Ring of Iron. Closer to Terra, Guilliman was disquieted to see the drifting wrecks of warships both Imperial and Traitor being picked over by heavy Adeptus Mechanicus dredgers and scavenger-factorums. The war, it seemed, had reached Humanity's star system of origin before them, and would surely only become worse in the solar days to come. As they began their final descent, Terra swelled in the picters. It was a bloated giant, its natural resources expended, oceans long boiled away and landmasses covered entirely in never-ending cityscapes. Lights beyond count burned all across the planet's surface, while macrostructures and super-statues pierced the Throneworld's pollution-choked atmosphere. Spaceport spires rose into the darkness amidst swarming masses of cherub-satellites, electro-sermon beacons, Servitor defence platforms and millions of Administratum transport ships. Their craft swung down through the organised bedlam, its route given the highest priority clearance, and descended into a haze of chem-smog and glaring, artifcial light. Towering structures of grey, gold and brass rose on every side, encrusted with grime-streaked gothic architecture and studded with cold electrical lights. Servo-skulls and Cyber Cherubs, gunships and bulk haulers, transporters and prison barges, patrol ships of the Adeptus Arbites and bell-skiffs of the Ministorum, all whirled around the Aquila craft in a storm. Downward it flew, until the towering, gargoyle-topped spires that rose on every side completely obscured the fading darkness of space. Finally, Guilliman's transport swung in to dock on a dedicated platform set into the flanks of the Eternity Wall spaceport. It put down upon a dais of age-worn marble, surrounded on all sides by verdigrised and heavily weaponised statues, from which hung burning braziers of incense. Robed figures were gathered on every side to witness and honour the Primarch's arrival. Servo-choirs sung out hymns to the Emperor while autoscribes scribbled with eagle-feather quills in iron tomes borne by chained slaves. Dignitaries of the Administratum and the Adeptus Terra flocked close, mingling with bombastic priests of the Ministorum and Terran nobles garbed in outrageous finery. All bowed to Guilliman as he emerged from the transport, forming the sign of the Aquila with their hands and vying to cry out their devotion the loudest. The Primarch did his best to smile, and to acknowledge the clamouring masses with dignity and respect. His mind was a whirl -- the last time Guilliman had seen Terra was many thousands of standard years before, and where once there had been industrious, high-technology glory, now all was buried in grotesque layers of gothic over-construction, industrial sprawl and macabre religious ornamentation. The Primarch's sense of dislocation and sorrow only increased as he and his followers were led through the masses, and descended in mag-lifts to what passed for ground level. They passed through a cavernous space of gloomy Administratum offices, where queues of petitioners stretched away into the hazy middle distance. Men and women, young and old, called out their devotion and wept for joy to see the Primarch pass, yet even his presence could not draw them from their places in queues that their ancestors had first joined, and that their progeny one day aspired to reach the front of. Guilliman and his warriors, still accompanied by their Custodes guards, emerged from that impossibly vast structure to find themselves in a plaza packed out with droning, shuffling, downtrodden crowds. On every side rose mile-high stained glass windows, each depicting a different Primarch. Guilliman saw Sanguinius, wings spread atop a mountain of mutant corpses. He saw Jaghatai Khan, riding upon a skull-faced comet that sped between the stars. There was brave Vulkan, grasping an impossibly huge hammer as he used a world for his anvil. And there, Guilliman stared up at a distorted image of himself, haloed in light with his Codex Astartes in one hand and the severed head of a horned daemon in the other. He was depicted as a giant amongst worshipping crowds of angelic figures, and for a moment Fulgrim's words to him at the parade on Macragge echoed in Guilliman's mind. All of Humanity would worship him as a living god. Guilliman must never come to believe it himself. Mounting up in ornate, super-heavy transporters, Guilliman and his companions were borne through endless streets and transit-ways, boulevards and processionals. They passed tribes of itinerant petitioners and clans of indigenous priests, faceless masses of Administratum drones and ragged shanties in which the poor and the maimed crawled like maggots in a wound. Billions watched the procession's progress as they passed through the dark heart of the Emperor's realm. The mountainous structures of the Imperial Palace loomed ever larger upon the horizon, a vast structure from which could be seen the cloud-piercing light of the Astronomican itself. For two solar days, Guilliman and his followers travelled through endless crowds and places of grandeur and grim horror. They passed beneath an arch-city hung with pain-frames, and beneath the gaze of a dozen statues of Imperial Saints, each as large as an ''Imperator''-class Titan. They crossed a vast bridge that spanned for fifty Terran miles over a smog-laden trench, whose walls were formed from manufactoria and smelteries beyond count. They travelled beneath the titanic guns of orbital defence silos that dwarfed any weapon even Guilliman had ever seen. At last they passed into the palace proper, by way of a dizzyingly tall gate graven with warring angels and daemons. There they dismounted their lumbering transports, and Guilliman was glad to proceed on foot through the precincts of the Inner Palace. More gates and splendour flowed past, so much that it all blurred into an impossible assault upon the senses. At last, feeling more exhausted by his homecoming than he ever had by any battle, Guilliman came before the final gate. Beyond that expansive arch lay the Emperor's throne room, and there, the Golden Throne of the Master of Mankind. Antes del trono de oro There were many routes to the Emperor's throne room. This gilded doorway stood at the end of a towering cathedrum processional. Its worn flagstones thronged with millions of desperate petitioners and pilgrims. Golden light filtered through immense stained glass windows that depicted the Emperor's greatest deeds. Innumerable candles burned in that cavernous space, filling the air with greasy smoke, and hymnals rang from the mouths of hunched cyber-cherubim. Incense billowed and bells tolled, while Ministorum Priests delivered wrathful sermons from servo-pulpits. Throngs of Tech-priests muttered and swayed in shadowed corners. Officers of the Imperial Navy and Astra Militarum spoke earnestly together, gesturing to dataslates held up by robed menials. Penitent nobles dangled in golden pain-cages, whimpering promised blandishments to the Custodian Guards who walked their patrol routes below. The doorway itself was beautifully worked in gold, bronze and precious stones, though it had the look of ancient, faded grandeur. It stood fifty Terran feet high within an arch of black marble, atop a flight of stone steps into which deep grooves had been worn by the passage of countless feet. The edges of each step were piled with petitioners' bones. Atop the steps stood twenty of the Adeptus Custodes. They were accompanied by a Martian Tech-priest, and led by a regal warrior in a high-plumed helm, golden armour and an ermine-trimmed cloak. Roboute Guilliman strode up the processional, through masses of pilgrims and petitioners who reached out quivering hands to touch his armour as he passed. With him walked Captain Cato Sicarius, Grand Master Aldrik Voldus, Shield-Captain Adronitus, and the mysterious Cypher and his Battle-Brothers, along with Belisarius Cawl, Katarinya Greyfax and Saint Celestine. This last figure was scarcely less adored by the crowds than Guilliman himself, and she turned aside before the steps to offer her blessings to all. Behind them marched the last Battle-Brothers of the Terran Crusade, footfalls crashing and weapons held at parade ground readiness. Despite all they had endured, the Space Marines and Grey Knights still made for a magnificent sight. Guilliman halted at the foot of the stairs, and looked up into the steely eyes of the Custodians. Their leader stepped forward, rapping his ornate spear thrice against the top step and announcing himself as Aquila Commander Kalim Varanor. In formal High Gothic, Varanor asked who came before the throne room of the Emperor of Mankind. Equally formal, Shield-Captain Adronitus announced the leaders of the Terran Crusade, one by one. Further words were exchanged, ancient forms repeated by rote, but lent gravitas by the arrival of a living Primarch. Guilliman's purpose was demanded and given: to gain an audience with his father, the Emperor. The air thickened with tension, millions of onlookers holding their collective breaths as the Aquila Commander held the gaze of the returned Primarch. Would Kalim Varanor suspect some treachery? Would he decry Guilliman as false, or demand further proof of his identity? The Aquila Commander looked to the Martian priest hunched at Guilliman's side. The robed figure inclined its head in assent, and Varanor announced his verdict. The Primarch would be permitted to pass, alone, into the throne room. All others would wait outside. At this, Cypher stiffened, his hands straying towards his holstered pistols. Guilliman had expected this moment, and had planned for it accordingly. The hooded Dark Angel and his men had upheld their end of the bargain, granting Guilliman his freedom on the Blackstone Fortress. Yet the Primarch was not fool enough to trust such an ominous figure blindly. He might not have recognised Cypher, but he knew the blade on the Dark Angel's back. The sight of it made him shudder with dread. He would not permit such a thing into his father's presence. Stepping aside, Guilliman commanded the Custodian Guards to apprehend Cypher and his warriors. Their presence was a riddle, one that could be solved once more pressing matters had been attended to. Cypher responded with the first show of emotion any there had seen from him. He snarled in anger, ripping his pistols from their holsters before hesitating for one crucial moment, visibly torn between attempting escape and making a doomed lunge for the doorway above. In that second, the Custodians closed in with their Guardian Spears levelled. Cypher and his followers found themselves surrounded in a ring of crackling blades. Slowly, his half-seen expression grim, Cypher holstered his weapons, and he and his brothers knelt in submission before their captors. Wrists bound with electrocuffs, they were led away by stern Custodians and locked away within a warded prison block that, for thousands of standard years, not a single inmate had escaped. In just a few short solar hours, however, Cypher would do just that, and in doing so leave no trace of his passing. For the moment, though, Guilliman knew only that the sinister figures were dealt with, and more pressing matters could be attended to. Face solemn, blade sheathed and helm tucked under one arm, the Primarch ascended to his father's throne room. At the top of the steps, the Custodian Guards parted to allow the Primarch passage. The Tech-priest stepped forward, however, emitting a blurt of binharic cant and bowing before Guilliman. With skittering haste, Archmagos Belisarius Cawl swayed up the steps behind the Primarch and came to his side. Guilliman waited, impatient, as the two Martian priests exchanged encoded binharic blurts, then Cawl turned to him and spoke cryptic words. Only the Custodes heard what was said, of secret pacts on Mars, and long works drawing at last to their conclusions, but -- as with so many dark secrets exchanged over the millennia upon these very steps -- they affected deafness and ignorance. Their exchange concluded, Cawl turned without comment and swept down the steps, his acolyte in tow. The Tech-priests vanished through the crowd and thence from Terra entirely, for they had matters of significant import to attend to upon the Red Planet. Guilliman was left standing alone before the ornate doorway, dwarfed by its immensity. A single, booming chime rang through the cathedrum processional, and a collective sigh of wonder and fear escaped the pilgrims gathered there as the doorway cracked open. Slowly, silently, the tall doors swung inwards to reveal only darkness and drifting mists beyond. The vapours twined about Guilliman's limbs like serpents, and spilled down the steps behind him amidst the faint echo of sorrowful, ghostly voices. Noble features set in an implacable mask, Guilliman took a slow, deep breath and stepped into the Emperor's throne room. As silently as they had opened, the doors swept closed behind him, and Roboute Guilliman was lost to sight. Solar hours passed, during which the warriors of the Terran Crusade stood silently to attention before the throne room doors. Awed murmuring amongst the crowds turned to fervent prayer, and more than one petitioner ventured forward to present Captain Cato Sicarius, Grand Master Aldrik Voldus and their brothers with meagre devotional offerings and words of thanks. Saint Celestine and Inquisitor Greyfax chose this moment to depart, the former to spread her blessings, and the latter to report to her Ordo Hereticus superiors for the first time in many standard centuries. The Imperial Palace had no natural cycles of night and day, the sky of Terra long lost amidst a miasma of artificial light and swirling pollutant clouds. Instead, the electrosconces and lumenchandeliers dimmed low at the tap of Lamp-servitors' wands. The petitioners huddled around parchment fires, still intoning prayers for the Primarch as they forced down the bowls of nutrient gruel brought to them by Ministorum Alms-servitors. Many lay down upon piles of threadbare surplices to sleep, while the Ultramarines kept their tireless vigil at the base of the steps as they waited for their gene-sire to return to them. Only when the day cycle dawned again with soaring hymns and a swelling glare of lumen-light did the doors finally swing open. Glowing mist spilled from within, silver now like the cold shimmer of moonlight on bones, and from the cold radiance stepped Roboute Guilliman. The Primarch's expression was unreadable as he strode down the steps to rejoin his warriors. The crowds cried out in awe and dread, begging the Primarch for enlightenment. Instead, Guilliman gathered his warriors around him, and bade Aquila Commander Varanor to attend him also. Guilliman demanded an immediate assembly of the High Lords of Terra, stating that he intended to resume his seat upon that august council. Roboute Guilliman would become the Lord Commander of the Imperium of Mankind once more. Of his meeting with the Emperor, Guilliman would say only that he had received all the enlightenment that he required. There was much now to be done, for the threat of Chaos grew greater by the solar hour. But Guilliman knew what must be done, and he would not shy from doing it. In the solar days that followed, the Primarch became the centre of a whirlwind of activity. He addressed the High Lords in the Senatorum Imperialis, claiming the Emperor's personal mandate as he forcibly removed several of them from office and replaced them with individuals of his own choosing. Guilliman warned the High Lords of an encroaching darkness, a terrible Warp phenomenon that was even now manifesting itself across the galaxy from end to end. The war against the Dark Gods was entering a new phase, more desperate and doom-laden than ever before in human history. The Great Rift was opening. The ever-growing flood of astropathic distress calls reaching Terra supported the Primarch's warnings. Cadia had been only the beginning. From the ravaged Fenris Sector and Ork-infested Armageddon, to the systems of Attila and Balor -- all felt the grasping claws of Chaos. New Warp rifts were splitting the void in terrifying number, while existing Warp phenomena roiled outwards like the pyroclastic clouds of volcanic eruptions. Witch-lights swam between the stars, and monstrous things moved behind the veil of reality, all gnashing fangs and glaring eyes. Whole sectors of the Imperium were going dark, while others reported the onslaught of rabid Greenskin hordes, aggressive Tau fleets or deathless Necron hosts, seemingly driven to conquest in the face of the expanding Warp Storm fronts. Heretic Chaos Cults and rogue psykers rose up in their billions, and every Imperial world now seemed set to burn in the fires of unending galactic war. For all these disturbing omens and disastrous losses, Guilliman urged Humanity's leaders not to give up hope. The Emperor of the Imperium was not blind to their plight, and neither was its restored Lord Commander. New armies would be raised, in breathtaking numbers. From Belisarius Cawl's forges on Mars, Guilliman planned to bring forth new and terrible weapons whose fury even the worshippers of the Chaos Gods would be unable to withstand. Fresh fleets would be built, grand war engines consecrated in the Emperor's holy name. The manufactoria would labour like never before, and every single servant of the Emperor would do their part. The Imperium faced total war on a galactic scale; with Warp Storms spreading and intensifying, no world was safe. Yet Humanity would not drown in this tide of warfare, but instead would ride upon the crest of a bloody wave to triumph once more against the darkness. Roboute Guilliman vowed that he would not cower behind Terra's walls and wait for Mankind's oppressors to bring death to his door. He would stride out amongst the stars and meet the enemy in the Emperor's name, as he always had. The Imperium would unite as one in the face of mutual annihilation, and take the battle to the mutant, the Traitor, the alien and the Heretic. So commanded Roboute Guilliman and thus, even as the Warp Storms raged and the Astronomican itself strove to pierce their ever-blackening clouds, vast armies and armadas were raised in numbers not seen since the Great Crusade that had founded the Imperium ten millennia before. A dark new age called from amidst the fires of endless war, and the Imperium of Man would answer. The long-feared End Times had indeed come to claim Mankind. But Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, was ready to move the stars themselves to ensure that, perhaps, they birthed a new beginning... Fuentes *''Gathering Storm - Part Three - Rise of the Primarch'' (7th Edition), pp. 48-93 Categoría:Artículos para traducir